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Presented   by  WfSvT.  '2>  Y-^scA  0\  ,  G  v*c7\n  (•\  ca  \ 

Hood,  Edwin  Paxton,  1820 
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THE    THRONE    OF    ELOQUENCE. 


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JAN   3   1915 


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THRONE    OF    ELOQUENCE: 


#r^at  IPnacIjers,  g^ncient  anb  gtaircni. 


BY  \/ 

E.     PAXTON     HOOD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "the  WORLD  OF  ANECDOTE,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK  : 

FUNK     AND     WAGNALLS, 

18  AND  20  AsTOR  Place. 

i888. 


PRESS  or 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS, 

18  and  20  Astor  Place, 

NEW  YORK 


TO  CHARLES  HADDON  SPURGEON. 


r\EAR    MR.    SPURGEON,— In    mscribing    this 

J-^  volume  to  you,  permit  me  to  say  that  I  am  simply 

fulfilling   the  affectionately   expressed   wish    of  my  dear 

'husband.     You  ivill  perhaps  remember  that  nearly  twenty 

years   since  he  had  the  pleasure  and  honour  to  deliver 

to  your  students  a  series   of  lectures   on    the  Vocation 

of  the   Preacher,   which   subsequently   took   shape   in   a 

someivhat  bulky  volume,  entitled  -Lamps,  Pitchers,  and 

Trumpets;'  the  dedication  of  which  you  ivere  kind  enough 

to  accept.     But  earlier  than  this,  and  some  thirty  years 

ago,    he  published  anonymously    "  The   Lamps    of  the 

TempK  ^^^""-^^  ^^"  ^^^^y  ^'^'"^  ^^^"'  "^''"^  '^  "'^"^^^  ^^ 
exceedingly  appreciative  and  warmly  eulogistic  paper 
on  one  Charles  Haddon  Spurgeon,  then  just  emerging 
into  fame,  had  the  honour  to  present,  I  believe,  the  first 
prescient  forecast  of  his  subsequently  great  and  successful 
career  But,  before  the  '^  Lamps  of  the  Temple,"  there 
/j  was  a  little  volume,  the  parent  of  all  his  succeeding 
I  I  ones  on  this  subject,  and  which  he  published  under 
the  modest  and  somewhat  pathetic  - nom-de-plume"  of 
-L'Agneau  Noir."  In  more  recent  years,— as  the 
"Preacher's  Lantern,"  various  papers  in  different  periodi- 
cals, and  lectures  given  in  America  and  elsewhere 
abundantly   testify,-the  pulpit  and  its   work   has  been 


DEDICATION. 


to  him  a  most  absorbing  theme,  almost,  I  may  say,  the 
passion  of  his  life.  The  books  to  which  I  have  referred 
had  all  been  out  of  print  for  many  years,  but  he,  who 
was  never  satisfied  with  any  work  he  ever  did,  was  not 
disposed  to  reproduce  them  as  they  had  first  appeared ; 
still  the  subject  haunted  him,  and  in  these  later  years  the 
desire  of  his  life  has  been  to  gather  up,  in  a  series  of 
three  or  four  volumes  which  he  hoped  would  prove  useful 
to  ministers  and  students,  all  that  he  considered  best  and 
most  worthy  of  permanence  in  his  previous  works  on  this 
his  favourite  topic.  Hence  this  volume  on  "  The  Throne 
of  Eloquence,^'  and  a  second  on  "  The  Vocation  of  the 
Preacher,"  which  he  was  not  able  quite  to  complete,  but 
which  will  yet  folloiv  shortly.  These,  hoivever,  only  ac- 
complished half  the  work  ivhich  he  hoped  to  do,  and  I 
have  ventured  to  trouble  you  and  his  readers  with  this 
lengthened  explanation  in  order  to  account  for  the  omission 
of  much  which  was  most  attractive  and  valuable  in  the 
former  works,  and  the  absence  of  which  must  still  leave 
his  task  unfinished.  But,  incomplete  as  is  the  work, 
kindly  accept  it,  dear  Sir — as  he  wished  that  you  should 
do — in  affectionate  and  reverent  acknowledgment  of  the 
extraordinary  work  you  have  been  called  to  perform, 
and  the  noble  life  you  have  been  permitted  to  live,  and  of 
which  he  always  spoke  as  your  "  best  sermon." 

I  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

Faithfully  yours, 

L.  PAXTON  HOOD. 


Barnsbury  Partc,  LoNnoN, 
Hept.  2\th,  1885. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  PULPIT  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE      .  I 

H.  TONGUES  OF  FIRE   ......  34 

111.  ST.   BERNARD  :   THE   MEDIEVAL   TONGUE   OF 

FIRE   .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .61 

IV.   THE    FALSE   FINERY   OF   THE    PULPIT   .            .            .  IO3 

V.    JEREMY   TAYLOR            ......  I36 

VI.    BUT   WHAT   IS    ELOQUENCE?          ....  168 

VII.    CHRYSOSTOM  :      THE     THRONE     IN     THE      EARLY 

CHURCH 204     "^ 

VIII.    WIT,    HUMOUR,    AND    DROLLERY    IN    THE    PULPIT  235 
IX.    FATHER    TAYLOR,    OF    BOSTON      ....  285 
X.    LIVE   COALS,    TEXTS    AND    TOPICS    OF   DISCOURSE  309 
XI.    THE   HEALTHFUL    DIVINE — ALEXANDER    WAUGH  ,  336 
XII.    LIVE   COALS   AND    DRY    STICKS — THE  ART   OF   OB- 
SCURITY   AND    THE    SCIENCE    OF    CLEARNESS     .  356 

XIII.  JAMES    STRATTEN 393 

XIV.  THE    USE   AND    ABUSE    OF   THE    IMAGINATION          .  418 
XV.    HENRY    MELVILL            ......  436 

INDEX 469 


^ 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE    PULPIT    THE    THRONE    OF  ELOQUENCE. 

THE  Story  of  the  Pulpit  through  all  ages,  from 
that  celebrated  "  pulpit  of  wood "  which  Ezra 
the  scribe  put  up  in  the  large  square  near  the 
Watergate  down  to  the  present  time,  is  one  of 
the  most  impressive  and  interesting  histories  in  the 
world ;  it  has  never  really  been  sufficiently  and 
effectually  recited,  but  it  is  not  an  exaggeration  to 
say  that  it  yields  to  no  other  story  in  eminent 
human  interest.  The  history  of  music,  the  history 
of  any  department  of  art,  the  history  of  the  drama, 
the  history  of  secular  oratory,  would  none  of  them 
present  such  a  variety  of  historic  incident  and  interest- 
ing human  material  ;  and  neither  would  show  such 
an  amazing  series  of  consequences  following  in  its 
train.  Whatever  questions  may  be  raised  or  debated 
as  to  the  power  of  the  pulpit  in  our  own  day,  it  has 
unquestionably  wrought  great  social  changes  in  the 
past,  and  has  been  a  vehicle  of  pre-eminent  power. 

Reviewing  the  history  of  the  Church  through  all 
ages,  the  Apostle's  words  that  by  "  the  foolishness  of 
preaching  "  God  would  save  the  world  are  really  pro- 
phetic.    Thus  Cowper's  often-quoted  lines  are  true: — 

"  I  say  the  pulpit  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate  peculiar  powers) 


2  THE  THROVE   OF  ELOQUENCE. 

Must  stand  acknowledged  while  the  world  shall  stand, 

The  most  important  and  effectual  guard, 

Support,  and  ornament  of  virtue's  cause. 

There  stands  the  messenger  of  truth.     There  stands 

The  legate  of  the  skies,  his  theme  Divine, 

His  office  sacred,  his  credentials  clear  ; 

By  him,  the  violated  law  speaks  out 

Its  thunders,  and  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 

As  angels  use,  the  Gospel  whispers  peace." 

Thus  Cowper's  estimate  of  the  pulpit  seems  to  be 
very  high  : — 

"  The  most  important  and  eifectual  guard, 
Support,  and  ornament  of  virtue's  cause." 

The  History  of  the  Pulpit  may  almost  be  described 
as  the  history  of  the  most  important  achievements 
of  the  human  voice,  conveying  a  message  of  more 
than  human  power.  Therefore  we  call  it  the  Throne 
of  Eloquence.  How  wonderful  is  the  story  of  St. 
Bernard,  whether  in  the  fields  of  Sens  or  in  the 
Chartreuse  of  the  Valley  of  Wormwood.  Equally 
wonderful  the  story  of  Savonarola  in  Florence  ; 
then,  too,  the  work  of  Luther,  and  all  the  great 
preachers  of  the  Reformation  ;  and  what  a  host  of 
names  instantly  start  to  the  memory,  of  leaders 
whose  words  kept  alive  a  flame,  however  languishing, 
of  spiritual  power  in  the  hearts  of  men  throughout 
England,  America,  and  even  in  other  parts  of  the 
world.  We  will  refer  in  future  pages  to  Du  Moulin, 
Du  Bosc,  Claude,  Saurin,  and  the  great  masters  of 
the  Reformed  Church  of  France ;  then  in  little 
communities,  such  as  those  in  the  scattered  villages 
of  Holland  or  among  the  Llanos  in  the  south  of 
France.     Ah  !   what  a  story  is  that  of  the  pastors 


SIMPLICITY  OF  THE  THRONE.  3 

of  the  desert !  What  an  attraction  there  has  been, 
what  a  human  link  and  bond  of  sympathy,  in  the 
preacher,  in  the  first  instance,  as  the  village  clergy- 
man, or,  in  the  other,  as  the  wandering  visitor  and 
itinerant.  How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  have 
been  the  feet  of  these  bringers  of  glad  tidings ! 
How  lovely  were  those   messengers  ! 

And  how  simple  usually  !  What  costly  sums  have 
been  expended  on  the  stage  or  the  orchestra  for 
their  great  effects !  The  pulpit  and  the  preacher 
have  relied  on  no  external  attractions,  and  in  their 
most  efficient  moods,  can  only  arrest  souls  in  their 
times  of  need,  and  deep  feeling,  and  thoughtfulness. 
God  has  set  forth  the  preacher  as  the  world's  great 
human  renovator,  and,  in  the  course  of  the  following 
pages,  we  will  attempt  to  show  that,  with  all  its 
frequent  delinquencies  and  sad  short-comings,  the 
human  voice  from  the  pulpit  has  sounded  out  the 
notes  of  social  reformation  and  regeneration.  We 
grant  the  delinquencies  of  the  pulpit.  Cowper,  whose 
noble  monogram  we  quoted  just  now,  gives  us  quite 
another  description  of  the  man   in  the  pulpit  : — 

"  Behold  the  picture  !  is  it  like  ?    Like  whom  ! 
The  thing  that  mounts  the  rostrum  with  a  skip, 
And  then  skips  down  again  ;  pronounces  a  text, 
Cries  Hein  /  and  reading  what  he  never  wrote. 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  huddles  up  his  work, 
And,  with  a  well-bred  whisper,  closes  the  scene." 

The  stories  of  both  orders  of  men  are  innumerable, 
and  as  interesting  as  numerous.  In  the  course  of 
the  following  chapters  we  shall  attempt  to  gather, 
from  various  sources,  illustrations  of  the  pulpit  in 
its  dignity  and  defection. 


4  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE. 

Another  writer,  following  Cowper,  has  delineated 
the  coxcomb  of  the  pulpit : — 

"  See  where  the  famed  Adonis  passes  by, 
The  man  of  spotless  life— and  spotless  tie ; 
His  reputation — none  the  fact  disputes — • 
Has  ever  been  as  brilliant  as  his  boots ; 
And  all  his  flock  believe  exceptionless 
His  points  of  doctrine — and  his  points  of  dress. 
He  makes  the  supercilious  worldling  feel 
That  e'en  religion  can  be — quite  genteel. 
He  lets  the  hesitating  sceptic  know 
A  man  may  be  a  Christian  and— a  beau. 
And  so  combines,  despite  satiric  railers, 
A  model  for  professors  and  for  tailors." 

All  this  has  its  side  of  truth,  but  the  pulpit  has 
been  none  the  less  the  throne  of  eloquence.  It 
has  been  the  great  precursor  of  the  mightiest  con- 
quests of  civil  freedom  ;  it  has  been  the  intrepid 
champion  of  civil  liberty,  if  sometimes  it  have 
even  shown  its  great  power  in  more  than  a  ques- 
tionable manner,  as  in  the  days  of  the  Crusades, 
when  it  stirred  Europe  to  madness.  More  than  all 
these  achievements,  the  pulpit  has  been  the  great 
power  of  God  unto  salvation  ;  it  is  the  agency 
through  which  the  Divine  Spirit,  without  whom 
nothing  is  strong,  nothing  is  holy,  moves  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  men. 

"There  stands  the  legate  of  the  skies." 

When  we  have  stood  before  the  pulpit  of  Sainte 
Genevieve  in  Paris,  we  have  thought  of  a  fine 
occasion  on  which  it  was  the  throne  of  eloquence. 
That  Church  was,  in  those  days,  the  Church  of  the 


"SURSUM  CORDAr 


court  of  that  cruel  and  licentious  prince  Francis 
the  First ;  the  preacher  was  famous  for  his  impas- 
sioned eloquence ;  on  this  particular  day,  and  at 
this  service,  there  was  an  immense  crowd  of  courtiers 
and  ecclesiastics  present,  for  in  the  royal  pew  there 
sat  the  king.  That  was  the  time,  our  readers  cannot 
fail  to  remember,  when  the  king  and  the  Papists 
were  burning  men  because  they  refused  to  acknow- 
ledge the  sacrifice  of  the  Mass.  Standing  in  that 
pulpit,  and  in  the  presence  of  that  splendid  assembly, 
the  preacher  had  the  courage  to  utter  that  great 
truth, — "  The  end  of  all  visible  things  is  to  lead  us 
to  invisible  things  ;  the  bread  upon  the  altar  is  only 
to  teach  us  that  Christ  is  the  food  of  the  soul. 
Seated  at  the  right  hand  of  God  Himself,  Jesus 
Christ    lives     in     the     affections    of    His     disciples. 

*  Seek  those  tJiings  ivJiicJi  are  above'  said  the  Apostle, 

*  where  Christ  sitteth  at  the  right  hand  of  God.'  Do 
not  confine  yourselves  at  Mass  to  what  is  upon  the 
altar  ;  rise  by  faith  there  to  find  the  Son  of  God  ! 
When  he  has  taken  the  elements  does  not  the 
priest  cry,  '  Snrsuin  corda '  f — that  is,  Lift  up  your 
hearts !  These  words  signify.  Here  is  the  bread, 
here  is  the  wine,  but  Jesus  is  in  heaven."  Then, 
with  dignity,  the  preacher  turned  to  the  king,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Sire,  if  }ou  wish  to  have  Jesus  Christ, 
do  not  look  for  Him  in  the  visible  elements  ;  soar 
to  heaven  on  the  wings  of  faith.  What  did  St. 
Augustine  say  ?  It  is  by  believing  in  Jesus  Christ 
that  we  eat  His  flesh  ;  if  it  were  true  that  Jesus 
Christ  could  be  devoured  by  the  teeth,  we  should 
not  say  '  Siirstim  ' — upwards — but  *  Deorsnin  ' — 
downwards.      Sire,    it    is    to    heaven    I    invite    you. 


6  THE  THRONE   OF  ELOQUENCE. 

Hear  the  voice  of  the  Lord  !  *  Sursiim  corda !  * 
Sire,  siirsiim  corda  !     Lift  up  your  heart !  " 

This  was  brave  preaching  ;  and  we  can  imagine 
the  upHfted  finger  of  the  preacher,  and  his  voice 
ringing  through  the  crowded  church,  and  carrying 
conviction,  we  should  think,  to  the  crowd,  when  a 
single  wave  of  the  royal  hand  could  have  delivered 
him  to  the  flames  ;  nor  do  we  wonder,  under  the 
circumstances,  that  the  king  heard  him  no  more, 
and  that  the  preacher  had  to  make  his  escape  as 
best  he  could  from  the  effects  of  his  all  too  faithful 
preaching.  Sovereigns  have  often  heard  unpalatable 
truths  from  these  "  legates  of  the  skies." 

Or,  while  we  are  in  Paris,  shall  we  step  along  to 
the  mighty  church  of  Notre  Dame,  and  transfer 
our  recollections  and  our  imagination  back  only  two 
centuries  through  the  flowing  tide  of  time  .-*  The 
occasion  is  great ;  it  is  the  funeral  service  for 
Louis  XIV.  ;  of  course  all  that  could  be  done  to 
heighten  or  deepen  the  sombre  splendour  was  there. 
The  vast  church  was  draped  in  black,  the  silver 
shieldings  flashing  back  the  light  of  the  taper,  the 
torch,  or  flambeaux  ;  the  censers  threw  forth  their 
fumes  of  incense,  mounting  in  wreaths  ;  there  were  all 
the  trappings  and  pageants  of  a  royal  funeral.  There 
were  assembled  all  the  chivalry  of  the  nation,  the 
royal  princes,  princesses,  and  the  courtiers,  proud 
and  dissolute  men,  the  gay  and  beautiful  ladies, 
all,  of  course,  in  mourning ;  there  the  dead  king 
lay  on  the  bier,  the  costly  catafalque,  beneath 
the  canopied  pall  before  the  pulpit,  covered  with 
all "  the  emblazonments,  the  hatchments,  and  the 
insignia  of  royalty.     The  inhabitant  of  that  coffin 


MASSILLON  IN  NOTRE  DAME.  7 

had  been  no  ordinary  king ;  for  seventy  years, 
nominally  and  really,  he  had  held  the  sceptre  of 
France  ;  he  had  assumed,  as  his  flatterers  had  given 
to  him,  the  designation  of  Great ;  he  had  been 
called  Louis  the  Magnifiqne — Louis  the  Magnificent. 
In  due  season  the  great  preacher  Massillon  entered 
the  pulpit ;  he  was  a  man  of  singularly  holy,  earnest, 
and  simple  life  ;  the  living  conscience  of  the  dead 
king  had  frequently  trembled  before  the  terrible 
preacher.  "  Monsignor,"  the  king  said  to  him  once, 
"  when  I  hear  other  men,  they  make  me  think  how 
brilliant  they  are  ;  but  when  I  hear  you,  I  tremble 
for  myself ! "  And  now  that  preacher  stood  before 
the  bier  of  the  illustrious  king ;  he  stood  a  little 
while  silent  and  quiet,  and  then  he  announced  his 
text,  from  the  book  of  Ecclesiastes  :  "  Lo  !  I  have 
become  great."  No  doubt  it  seemed  a  fitting  text 
to  commemorate  the  life  and  deeds  of  the  prince 
who  had  been  pre-eminently  called  "  the  Great." 
The  preacher  stood  quite  still  ;  his  hands  were 
crossed  over  his  breast ;  his  face  settled  on  the 
coffin  ;  mighty  feelings  struggled  over  the  features  ; 
at  last  he  broke  the  silence  by  those  very,  very 
simple  words,  "  There  is  nothing  great  but  God ! " 
How  simple  !  they  seem  a  mere  truism.  We  have 
no  account  of  the  tone,  only  that  it  was  the  preacher's 
awful  whisper  ;  but  the  story  is  well  known  how, 
as  he  breathed  the  words,  the  whole  congregation 
rose  in  consternation,  and  looked  behind  and 
about  them.  It  must  have  been  the  man  aided  by 
the  universal  knowledge  of  his  holy  life  ;  perhaps 
it  was  as  if,  in  those  words,  the  preacher  chcil- 
lenged  the  eminence  of  the  conqueror  of  the  Rhine 


8  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE, 

and  the  builder  of  Versailles.  He  stood  there, 
the  legate  of  eternity,  to  question  the  arrogant 
claims  of  the  monarch  who  had  played  so  conspicuous 
a  part  in  the  annals  of  time.  It  was  a  great 
moment  in  the  history  of  pulpit  eloquence,  but  it 
also  illustrated  that  the  power  of  the  preacher,  like 
the  power  of  the  great  singer,  is  not  to  be  tested 
by  the  length  of  time  he  can  talk,  but  by  the 
intensity  of  the  emotion  he  can  excite. 

But  passing  from  the  vast  cathedral,  instances  are 
not  wanting  in  which  a  drawing-room  has  become  a 
throne  of  pulpit  eloquence. 

Two  or  three  months  since,  from  the  pulpit  of 
a  wealthy  congregation  in  the  very  immediate 
suburbs  of  London,  upon  a  very  fine,  bright 
Sunday  morning,  a  youthful  preacher,  fresh  from 
the  honours  of  his  university,  before  announcing 
his  text,  apologized  to  his  audience  for  it  and 
for  offending  their  taste  upon  so  bright  an  occasion 
by  such  very  uncomfortable  suggestions  as  the 
text  presented,  which  they  would  find  in  Eccle- 
siastes,  etc.,  etc.  :  Vanity  of  vanities^  all  is 
vanity !  "  Now,"  exclaimed  the  youthful  orator, 
"  that  is  untrue  ! "  He  even  went  further,  and 
affirmed,  with  all  proper  apologies  for  using  phrase- 
ology so  strong,  that  the  language  was — a  lie(!), 
only  resulting  from  the  false  philosophy  of  a  worn- 
out  man  of  the  world  ;  he  then  proceeded  with  his 
expatiation  upon  the  soundness  of  nature  and  of 
things  in  general.  It  was  impossible  for  the  author 
of  these  pages  to  hear  of  this  service  without 
recalling  to  memory  an  incident  which,  as  it 
is    associated  with    the    emergence    of   one    of   the 


BOSSUET  IN  DE  RAMBOUILLET.  g 

mightiest  masters  of  pulpit  oratory  into  notice, 
forms  also  an  imperial  circumstance  in  the  story  of 
the  throne  of  eloquence ;  it  is  a  story  recited  in 
those  delightful  old  French  memoirs  we  know  so 
well,  and  which  Lady  Jackson  has  reproduced  in 
her  chatty  "Pictures  of  Old  Paris  ;"  the  circumstance 
transpired  in  the  then  incomparably  most  fashion- 
able and  grandly  historical  salon  of  Ram- 
bouillet.  One  night,  when  there  were  gathered, 
in  this  most  'famous  drawing- room,  all  the  most 
illustrious  personages  of  the  French  nobility,  the 
Marquis  de  Fenquieres  introduced  to  the  company 
a  young  friend,  a  youthful  abbe,  probably  scarcely 
so  old  as  the  juvenile  orator  mentioned  above  ; 
in  the  course  of  conversation  the  Marquis  said 
his  young  friend  was  entering  upon  an  ecclesias- 
tical career,  and  he  had  heard  from  his 
college  that  he  had  extraordinary  gifts  in  extem- 
poraneous speaking.  We  know  the  people  who 
frequented  De  Rambouillet,  wits  and  verse-makers, 
masters  of  the  stage,  and  great  court  celebrities  ; 
but,  as  these  things  were  whispered  about  the  young 
Abbe,  nothing  would  suit  the  company  but  they 
must  have  a  sermon  ;  yes,  and  the  Prince  de  Conti 
would  have  a  sermon,  if  only  the  Abbe  would  preach, 
and  preach  impromptu.  Several  texts  were  to  be 
shaken  up  in  a  bag,  and  one  of  the  illustrious  ladies 
was  to  draw  one  forth  upon  her  lap,  and  hand  it  to 
the  preacher.  Youthful  as  he  was,  the  preacher's 
appearance  did  not  incline  the  company  to  gay  or 
amusing  ideas  ;  it  was  apparent  very  soon  that  if 
the  singular  event  were  to  be  an  amusement  to  the 
company,  it  would  probably  be  something  more  than 


10  THE  THRONE   OF  ELOQUENCE. 

this  to  the  preacher.  Some  objected  that  it 
was  midnight,  but  the  objection  was  soon  over- 
ruled ;  and  so  the  ladies  attempted  to  put  aside  their 
coquettish  airs,  and  the  gentlemen  their  carelessness 
and  indifference  ;  a  spinnet  was  removed  from  the 
dais,  at  the  further  end  of  the  large  and  crowded 
salon,  and  here  the  young  Abb6  was  to  stand  that 
he  might  be  the  better  seen  as  well  as  heard  by 
his  illustrious  congregation,  who,  after  all,  very  likely 
regarded  the  episode  as  a  kind  of  pleasing  variety, 
a  sort  of  little  comedy  which  was  to  be  enacted 
for  their  amusement.  A  lady  drew  forth  a  slip  of 
paper,  as  had  been  agreed,  and  handed  it  to  the 
young  Abbe.  Remarkable  !  It  was  the  same  text 
as  that  of  our  young  friend  mentioned  above, 
•  Vanity  of  vanities  !  all  is  vanity  !  It  had  been 
agreed  that  he  should  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
review  and  to  arrange  his  thoughts  ;  but,  as  the 
paper  was  handed  to  him,  he  declined  this  con- 
cession. He  rose,  stood  before  them,  crossed  him- 
self, and  glanced  round  with  that  peculiar  smile 
which  we,  who  know  what  he  afterwards  became, 
do  not  find  it  difficult  to  realize.  The  glance, 
young  as  he  was,  took  in,  with  pathetic  passion, 
the  plumed  and  jewelled  grand  ladies  and  their 
cavaliers.  Very  singularly,  the  text  seemed  start- 
lingly  appropriate  ;  the  young  preacher  offered  no 
apology  as  he  read  it.  He  was  very  young ;  we  do 
not  wonder  to  read  that  many  men,  young  as  him- 
self, attempted  to  laugh  ;  but  these  attempts  were 
very  soon  the  only  vanity  in  the  proceeding  ;  that 
they  were  in  the  salon  was  soon  forgotten.  The 
exordium    pronounced,  then    probably  followed   the 


A    YOUNG  MAN  NAMED  BOSSUET.  ii 

Ave  Maria,  as  is  usual  with  the  French  preacher,  and 
he  passed  straightway  into  his  discourse,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  unveil  the  vanities  of  the  manifold  scenes 
of  human  life — the  vanity  of  life  and  the  vanity  of 
man.  Naturally,  no  fragments  of  the  discourse  have 
been  preserved  ;  but  it  was  a  very  long  one,  and, 
before  those  piercing  eyes  and  sharp  face  and 
earnestness  so  commanding  in  its  intensity,  they 
all  went  down.  At  that  time  there  was  probably 
no  great  pulpit  orator  in  France  ;  long  years  after 
the  young  man  became  one  of  a  race — some  would 
demand  that  we  should  say  the  chief  of  a  race — of 
illustrious  contemporaries  ;  his  fine  poetic  and  reli- 
gious fervour  and  powerful  words  startled  ears 
accustomed  only  to  the  dryness  and  pedantry  of 
ordinary  speakers.  It  is  curious  to  think  that  the 
first  of  the  great  sermons  and  of  the  great  preachers 
of  that  seventeenth  century  in  France  appeared  that 
night  in  the  salon  of  Rambouillet.  Tradition  has 
told  how,  after  he  had  frozen  his  hearers  almost  to 
horror  as  he  poured  contempt  upon  the  vanities  of 
time,  he  passed  triumphantly  through  the  sepulchre, 
and  dwelt  upon  the  sacrifice  of  Christ  and  the 
abiding  blessings  of  eternity.  Hitherto  his  name 
was  unknown.  The  Due  d'Enghien  pressed  forward 
at  the  close ;  taking  the  young  man's  hand,  he 
inquired  his  name,  and  whence  he  came.  "  From 
Dijon,"  and  his  name  was  BossUET  !  This  was  his 
first  appearance  among  men  ;  he  was  probably 
never  again  permitted  to  pass  out  of  sight.  How 
natural  the  contrast  of  the  estimate  this  youth  had 
formed  of  life  and  time  to  that  of  that  other  youth, 
our  young  friend  of  the  other  day. 


12  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE. 

The  instance  also  calls  to  our  mind  the  memory 
that  this  first  appearance  of  Bossuet  created  a  panic 
among  fashionable  abbds  in  Paris,  frequenters  of  the 
Rambouillet  or  other  such  luxurious  salons,  and 
who  thought  they  could  preach.  Especially  was  this 
the  case  with  a  certain  Abbe  Cotin,  He  was  a  very 
delightful  person  ;  all  the  ladies  loved  him  ;  he  also 
had  the  reputation  of  being  a  scholar  ;  he  was  a 
great  utterer  of  pretty  platitudes  and  soft  phrases  ; 
his  words  never  ruffled  self-complacency,  or  pricked 
a  conscience  ;  he  addressed  elegant  congregations 
week  by  week  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Louvre  ;  he  was 
present  and  heard  the  sermon  of  the  extraordinary 
youth,  and  he  was  not  a  little  annoyed  that  even 
the  super-refining  criticisms  of  the  savants  of  the 
Rambouillet  could  detect  no  flaw  of  taste  in  the 
impassioned  flow  of  words  ;  but  when  the  beautiful 
Duchesse  de  Longueville  inquired  of  the  Abbe  his 
opinion,  he  simply  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said, 
"  The  young  man  recites  very  well,"  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  expound  to  her  that  it  was  no  sermon 
at  all !  This  was,  of  course,  at  a  later  meeting  in 
the  same  fashionable  salon.  "  Recites  !  "  said  the 
Duchesse  in  amazement ;  but,  unfortunately  for 
Cotin,  no  other  than  Corneille,  the  mighty  master  of 
French  tragedy,  was  standing  by  ;  perhaps  he  had 
a  grudge  against  Cotin  ;  at  any  rate,  he  insisted  that 
the  Abbe  should  submit  himself  to  the  conditions 
with  which  the  young  Bossuet  had  complied,  and 
give  them  a  sermon.  The  homage  to  Bossuet  had 
been  universal  ;  it  was  probably,  therefore,  some 
spiteful  satirist,  or  it  might  have  been  Corneille 
himself,  who  put  into  the  Abbe's  hands,  as  tlie  theme 


THE  ABBE   CO  TIN.  13 

of  his  discourse,  "  I  said  in  my  haste,  All  men  are 
liars ! "  It  may  be  admitted  that  although  a  very 
fruitful  theme,  it  was  neither  so  solemn  nor  so 
suggestive  of  apt  and  pertinent  illustrations  as  that 
which  had  been  presented  to  Bossuet  ;  but  certainly, 
after  two  or  three  disjointjed  sentences,  the  Abbe 
floundered  from  the  beginning.  We  have  said  he 
was  a  favourite  with  the  ladies  ;  naturally  they  per- 
ceived his  embarrassment  ;  most  graciously  they 
came  to  his  assistance.  One  of  them  gave  a  loud 
scream  ;  she  had  seen  a  spider  run  across  her  dress. 
We  cannot  suppose  that  even  this  untoward  circum- 
stance would  have  disconcerted  the  self-possession  of 
Bossuet,  but  it  threw  the  whole  salon  into  confusion 
from  which  it  did  not  recover  itself  The  Abbe 
affected  to  be  indignant,  and  to  recover  for  himself 
the  dais  ;  but  it  was  generally  whispered  that  it  was 
too  late  to  resume  the  discourse,  and  the  great  people 
began  to  stream  away  in  a  body,  and  the  Marquis 
de  Rambouillet  seems  himself  to  have  assumed  the 
dais  and  to  have  informed  his  guests  that  they 
would  have  no  more  attempts  at  preaching  in  the 
salon.  Upon  this  occasion,  certainly,  the  salon  was 
not  a  throne  of  eloquence. 

The  young  Bossuet,  thus  caught  by  surprise,  and 
compelled  to  an  unprepared  sermon  upon  an  im- 
promptu text,  reminds  us  of  another  instance  in 
which  a  youthful  preacher  was  called  to  a  sudden 
exercise  of  his  powers. 

There  is  a  capital  story  told  in  the  very  pleasant 
memoirs  of  that  beautiful  and  admirable  man  Dr. 
Alexander  Waugh  ;  it  was  given  to  the  Doctor  at 
the   Hague,  and  the  incident  appears  to  have  hap- 


14  THE  THRONE   OF  ELOQUENCE. 

pened  before  his  visit  there  in  1802.  There  was  a 
young  man  of  great  ability,  a  student  for  the  ministry; 
his  father  was  an  ordinary  preacher  at  the  court  of 
the  Prince  of  Orange.  The  Prince  wished  to  hear 
the  son,  but  would  scarcely  condescend  to  ask  him 
to  take  the  pulpit ;  but  he  ordered  the  father  to  push 
the  son  into  the  pulpit  without  much  notice,  at  the 
last  moment,  in  order  that  the  Prince  might  form  a 
fair  estimate  of  his  powers.  The  Prince  also  gave 
to  the  father  the  text;  it  was  from  the  eighth  chapter 
of  the  Acts,  from  the  twenty-sixth  to  the  fortieth 
verse,  the  story  of  Philip  and  "  the  eunuch  of  great 
authority  under  Queen  Candace,"  The  young  man 
was  confounded,  but  there  was  no  escape. 

The  church  was  crowded,  the  audience  mostly 
courtly  and  noble.  After  the  preliminary  service, 
he  announced  his  text,  which  he  said  contained  four 
wonders  which  he  would  make  the  four  heads  of  his 
sermon,  and  if  he  should  say  anything  to  which  their 
ears  had  been  unaccustomed  in  that  place,  he  hoped 
the  unprepared  state  of  his  mind  and  his  sudden 
call  would  plead  his  apology,  and  that  they  would 
consider  the  things  he  might  speak  as,  accord- 
ing to  our  Lord's  promise,  given  to  him  in  that 
hour. 

"  Head  the  First  ;  Wonder  the  First.  A  courtier 
reads  !  "  Here  he  deplored  the  sad  neglect  in  the 
education  of  great  men  in  modern  times,  their 
general  ignorance,  and  the  little  attention  paid  by 
them  to  books  in  general. 

"  Head  the  Second  ;  Wonder  the  Second.  A 
courtier  reads  the  Bible  !  "  Here  he  dwelt  upon  and 
deplored  the  melancholy  want  of  religious  sentiments 


THE   YOUNG   COURT  PREACHER,  15 

and  feelings  in  the  minds  of  the  great,  and  how  im- 
poverished and  destitute  such  minds  must  be. 

"Head  the  Third  ;  Wonder  the  Third.  A  courtier 
owns  himself  ignorant  of  his  subject  !  "  And  here  he 
dwelt  at  length,  while  he  exposed  the  conceit  and 
presumption  of  ignorance  in  high  places,  which 
fancied  itself  to  be  in  possession  of  real  knowledge, 
ashamed  to  confess  its  want  of  information.  And 
then  came 

"  Head  the  Fourth  ;  Wonder  the  Fourth.  A 
courtier  applies  to  a  minister  of  Christ  for  information, 
listens  to  his  ijistruction,  and  follows  his  counsel!  "  It 
was  said  that  the  prince  usually  slept  through  the 
whole  sermon,  but  he  neither  winked  nor  nodded 
once  while  this  sermon  was  going  on.  It  is  also  said 
that  this  young  preacher  was  never  put  into  that 
pulpit  again.      The  "  legate  "  was  too  faithful ! 

Certainly  such  stories  as  these  we  have  quoted 
are  of  men  of  a  widely  different  order  from  him  of 
whom  Cowper  speaks  as  "  the  thing  which  mounts 
the  rostrum   with   a  skip." 

The  Church  was  born  in  the  institution  of 
preaching.  Dean  Milman,  in  a  novel  passage  in 
his  "  History  of  the  Early  Church,"  has  with  great 
truth  and  propriety  shown  that  oratory  in  the  new 
civilization  was  born  in  the  Church. 

It  surely  is  not  uninteresting  to  notice  that  as  it 
expired  in  Greece  and  Rome  with  the  decay  of  their 
republics  and  the  decline  of  popular  freedom,  so 
the  free  spirit  of  Christianity  again  kindled  and 
gave  utterance  to  that  free  speech  which  is  wholly 
incompatible  with  despotic  institutions.  Secular 
oratory  has,  no  doubt,  been  guilty  of  many  sins  in 


1 6  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE. 

its  vehemency  of  passion,  and  sacred  oratory  has 
not  always  been  wise  ;  but  it  is  almost  safe  to  say 
that  except  in  alliance  with  the  great  and  glowing 
sentiment  of  freedom,  oratory  has  no  existence  at 
all.  Further  than  this,  we  are  maintaining  that  the 
pulpit  is  the  throne  of  the  orator,  not  the  senate, 
not  the  bar,  not  the  platform.  The  voice  raised  in 
those  various  arenas,  because  it  has  appealed  to 
more  immediate  and  evident  interests,  has  perhaps 
won  a  more  extensive  temporary  fame  ;  but  with  a 
{cw  exceptions,  and  those  quite  doubtful,  the  pulpit, 
in  its  history  throughout  all  ages,  has  exhibited  the 
most  splendid  conflagrations  of  eloquence,  and  rolled 
over  the  minds  of  men  the  most  impressive  and 
portentous  thunders.  There  is  at  once  reason  in 
this  and  for  this,  and  it  is  found  in  what  we  said 
just  now.  The  highest  and  noblest  speech  is  always 
in  alliance  with  the  affirmation  of  the  highest  and 
noblest  destinies  of  the  human  mind  and  soul ;  and 
the  preacher,  as,  beyond  any  other  orator,  he  deals 
with  these,  so  when  he  is  a  man  of  eminent  genius, 
like  Chrysostom,  Basil,  Massillon,  Robert  Hall,  or 
Lacordaire,  possessed  of  reason,  passion,  and  ima- 
gination in  equal  and  eminent  proportions,  he 
becomes  something  of  the  bard  and  the  seer  in  his 
character  of  a  preacher  or  teacher,  and  deals  with 
interests  and  matters  which,  as  they  are  beyond  the 
ordinary  argument  of  the  secular  orator,  appeal 
indeed  to  more  remote  and  yet  most  immediate 
interests,  and  touch  the  deeper  foundations  of  human 
nature.  The  genius  of  Romanism,  especially  in  its 
later  ages,  has  sought  to  raise  the  orchestra  and  all 
the    paraphernalia   of    the    altar,    its   blazing    lights, 


IS  PULPIT  POWER  DECAYING?  17 

robes,  and  dumb  mysterious  motions,  above  the 
pulpit.  The  genius  of  Protestantism,  and  the  Greek 
and  Latin  churches  in  the  earUer  years  of  their 
history,  before  they  had  corrupted  themselves,  em- 
ployed the  pulpit  for  vocalizing  ideas,  in  order  that 
they  might  create  a  moral  impression  and  be  a 
moral  force  over  the  natures  of  men.  Thus,  as  it 
has  been  said,  eloquence  in  the  pulpit  is  a  compre- 
hensive intellectual  virtue.  In  its  great  ages  it  had 
a  power  of  which  we  know  nothing  now,  very  much 
resembling  what  we  know  of  the  eloquence  of  the 
ancients,  absorbing  the  functions  of  the  press,  the 
senate,  and  the  school,  and  moving  men  to  flock  in 
throngs  and  crowds  to  hear  the  many-gifted  man 
who  would  utter  some  mighty  and  comprehensive 
idea  which  would  enchain  their  memory  and  their 
conversation  for  months,  perhaps  for  years  after  the 
event  was  past.  Those  days  have  gone,  gone,  shall 
we  say  most  likely  never  to  return  }  Shall  we  say 
a  new  order  of  things  has  succeeded  .''  Then  we 
must  feel  that  a  power  has  passed  from  the  world. 

But  is  not  the  pulpit  the  throne  of  eloquence 
still  '>  It  must  be  very  clear  to  all  readers  that 
when  we  speak  of  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit  we  do 
not  mean  a  mere  flow  of  words,  however  apparently 
exhaustless  and  rapid  ;  this  alone  and  by  itself  is  not 
eloquence,  any  more  than  the  page  of  a  book  covered 
with  words  constitutes  fine  writing,  or  a  succession 
of  sounds  fine  music.  So  also  when  we  accept  the 
verdict  of  Shakespeare — a  verdict  which  has  also  the 
sanction  of  far  more  ancient  names — that  "  action  is 
eloquence,"  it  is  not  implied  that  eloquence  is  in 
mere  action  any  more  than  it  is  in  mere  words  ;  in 

Z 


i8  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE. 

both  instances  there  must  be  an  accent  which  makes 
itself  felt,  that  which  Cicero  means  when  he  defines 
eloquence  to  be  "  a  continuous  movement  of  the 
soul."  We  will  here,  at  the  risk  of  repeating  ourselves 
from  a  previous  work,*  give  two  illustrations  of  what 
we  mean,  the  first  from  that  illustrious  master  of 
sacred  assemblies,  Dr.  Chalmers.  Dr.  John  Brown, 
in  that  delicious  book  the  "  Horae  Subsecivae,"  gives  an 
instance  of  his  listening  to  this  great  Scotch  orator 
when  he  was  only  a  youth  in  the  High  School  of 
Edinburgh.  It  was  in  a  wild  moorland  district  on 
a  summer  evening  ;  Brown  and  some  of  his  fellow- 
students,  bright,  gay,  thoughtless  lads,  fascinated  by 
the  charm  of  the  great  name,  had  walked  over  to  the 
kirk  among  the  moors.  "  As  we  entered  the  kirk, 
we  saw  a  notorious  character,  a  drover,  who  had 
much  of  the  brutal  look  of  what  he  worked  in,  with 
the  knowing  eye  of  a  man  of  the  city,  a  sort  of  big 
Peter  Bell. 

"  '  There  was  a  hardness  in  his  cheek ; 
Thei'e  was  a  hardness  in  his  eye.' 

"  He  was  our  terror  ;  and  we  not  only  wondered 
at,  but  were  afraid  of  him,  when  we  saw  him  going 
in.  The  minister  came  in,  homely  in  his  dress 
and  gait,  but  having  a  great  look  about  him  like 
a  mountain  among  hills.  The  tide  set  in.  Every- 
thing aided  its  power;  deep  called  unto  deep.  How 
astonished  and  impressed  we  all  were !  He  was 
at  the  full  thunder  of  his  power ;  the  whole  man 
was  in  an  agony  of  earnestness.  The  drover  was 
weeping  like  a  child,  the  tears  were  running  down 
his  ruddy,  coarse  cheeks,  his  face  opened  out  and 

•  "  World  of  Proverb  and  Parable." 


THE  ELOQUENCE  OF  CHALMERS.  19 

smoothed  like  an  infant,  his  whole  body  stirred  with 
emotion,  and  when  the  wonderful  speaker  sat  down 
how  beautiful  to  our  eyes  did  the  thunderer  look. 
We  went  home  quieter  than  we  came  ;  we  thought 
of  other  things,  that  voice,  that  face,  those  great, 
simple,  living  thoughts,  those  flows  of  resistless 
eloquence,  that  piercing,  shattering  voice." 

This  is  a  fine  description  of  what  we  have  some- 
times called  the  Trollhatten  style  of  eloquence — 
eloquence  leaping  in  its  zigzag,  rushing,  shattering 
impetuosity  from  the  high  rocks  above,  whirling, 
crashing,  careering,  and  eddying  along.  How  sin- 
gular !  including  in  its  pulsation  of  passion,  and 
bearing  along  by  its  power,  the  rough  drover  of 
the  Lammermuirs  and  the  gentle,  sensitive,  culti- 
vated youth,  who  well  knew  what  a  holy  life  and 
all  highest  preaching  was,  as  himself  the  son  of 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  preachers  and  scholars 
in  the  Edinburgh  of  his  day. 

Well,  then,  take  another  instance  which  may  be 
spoken  of  as  a  pendant  to  that  given  by  the  author 
of  the  "  Horae."  We  remember  to  have  heard  a 
dear  departed  friend  tell  how,  when  a  boy,  he 
was  taken  by  his  father,  one  still  summer  evening, 
across  the  Northamptonshire  fields, — we  believe  it 
was  to  the  little  village  town  of  Thrapstone, — to 
hear  Robert  Hall.  It  was  one  of  the  old  Puritan 
village  chapels,  with  the  square  galleries.  As  in  the 
instance  of  Chalmers,  the  place  was  crowded  with 
plain  farmer  folk  and  a  sprinkling  of  intelligent 
ministers  and  gentry  from  the  neighbourhood.  The 
minister  came  in,  a  simple,  heavy,  but  still  impressive- 
looking  man,  one  whose  presence  compelled  you  to 


20  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE. 

look  at  him.  In  due  course  he  announced  his  text : 
"  The  end  of  all  things  is  at  hand  ;  be  sober,  and 
watch  unto  prayer."  Quite  unlike  Chalmers,  his 
voice  was  not  shattering,  but  thin  and  weak.  There 
was  no  action  at  all,  only  a  kind  of  nervous  twitching 
of  the  fingers,  more  especially  as  the  hand  moved 
to  and  rested  upon  the  lower  part  of  the  back,  where 
the  speaker  was  suffering  almost  incessant  pain.  A 
he  went  on  beneath  the  deepening  evening  shades, 
falling  through  the  windows  of  the  old  chapel,  his 
voice  first  chained,  then  charmed  and  fascinated  his 
hearers  one  after  another  ;  the  whole  place  seemed 
as  if  beneath  a  great  spell.  As  he  talked  about 
"  the  end  "  the  spell  upon  the  people  seemed  to  begin 
to  work  itself  out  into  an  awful  fearful  restlessness  ; 
first  one,  then  another,  rose  from  their  seats,  and 
stood  stretching  forward  with  a  kind  of  fright  and 
wonder.  Still  there  was  no  action,  only  the  follow- 
ing on  of  that  thin  voice,  with  a  marvellous  witchery 
of  apt  and  melodious  words ;  but  through  them 
"  the  end  of  all  things "  sounded  like  the  tolling 
of  some  warning  bell.  More  people  rose,  stretching 
forward  ;  many  of  those  who  rose  first,  as  if  they 
felt  some  strange  power  upon  them, — they  knew  not 
what, — got  up  and  stood  upon  their  seats  until, 
when  the  great  master  ceased,  closing  his  passionate 
and  pathetic  accents,  the  whole  audience  was  upon 
its  feet,  intensely  alive  with  interest,  as  if  each  one 
had  heard  in  the  distance  the  presages  and  preludes 
of  the  coming  end,  and  felt  it  was  time  to  prepare. 
Our  friend  used  to  speak  of  that  never- forgotten 
moment,  that  summer  evening  in  the  old  chapel, 
as  one  of  the  most  memorable  in  his  life. 


THE  ELOQUENCE   OF  ROBERT  HALL.       21 

Thus,  if  we  have  spoken  of  the  eloquence  of 
Chalmers  as  a  kind  of  Trolihatten  Fall,  Hall's,  on 
the  other  hand,  -was  a  kind  of  Niagara  in  its  vast 
breadth  and  body,  in  its  measured,  nervous,  and — shall 
we  use  the  word  ? — even  monotonous  cadence.  We 
are  not  in  this  saying  which  was  the  greater,  only 
that  the  modes  of  their  eloquence  were  so  different, 
but  in  each  fulfilling,  it  seems,  to  the  utmost,  the 
definition  of  Cicero :  "  a  continuous  movement  of 
soul."  Certainly  they  both  wielded  the  sceptre  of 
speech  from  the  throne  of  eloquence  ;  of  such 
eloquence,  we  suppose,  we  have  no  living  examples. 
And,  after  all,  eloquence  must  depend,  not  upon  the 
orator  alone,  but  upon  the  auditor ;  and  in  all  the 
great  and  impassioned  successes  of  oratory,  the 
auditor  may  say  to  the  orator,  "  Half  is  mine  and 
half  is  thine."  And  faith  in  unseen  things,  in  an 
unseen  world  lying  round  about  us,  is  now  at  a 
great  remove  as  compared  with  what  it  was  to  either 
the  audience  in  the  Lammermuirs,  or  in  the  North- 
amptonshire village.  More  than  ever  in  any  pre- 
vious age  of  the  world,  the  man  in  the  pulpit  finds 
that  he  has  an  adversary  in  the  man  in  the  pew. 
Even  the  coarse  drover  had  probably  no  barrier  to 
put  up  against  the  preacher  except  his  wicked  life, 
and  that,  the  fervent  earnestness  of  the  preacher 
overcame,  and  he  found  his  conscience  arrested  and 
his  feelings  wrought  upon.  The  hearer's  emotions 
really  assisted  the  preacher's  words. 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  purely  intellectual 
preaching,  preaching  which  merely  reasons  and 
refines,  has  ever  had  this  power.  In  the  instances 
to  which  we  have  referred  it  was  the  soul  within  the 


22  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE. 

speaker  which  made  his  words  move  through  the 
souls  of  other  men,  as  with  the  power  of  a  necromancer. 
Such  eloquence  as  we  have  in  our  own  day  seems 
never  to  rise,  or  to  be  of  this  order,  although  worthy 
of  that  characterization  given  by  one  of  our  recent 
poets,  although  we  could  never  see  its  justice  as 
applied  to  the  statesman  to  whom  the  lines  were 
a  compliment — 

"  An  eloquence  not  like  those  rills  from  a  height 
Which  sparkle,  and  foam,  and  in  vapour  are  o'er, 
But  a  torrent  that  works  out  its  way  into  light 
Through  the  filtering  recesses  of  thought  and  of  lore." 

Ah !  those  "  filtering  recesses  of  thought  and  of 
lore"  are  impediments  to  that  eloquence  which  speaks 
immediately  to  the  soul,  and  to  those  movements 
in  the  atmosphere  of  the  mind  which  create  tempests 
of  feeling  in  the  hearer. 

In  another  chapter  we  may  return  to  this  topic 
of  the  adjustment  of  the  claims  of  the  intellect  and 
the  feelings  in  the  pulpit  ;  meantime  we  have  glanced 
at  some  of  those  reasons,  or,  shall  we  say,  those 
prerogatives  which  constitute  the  pulpit  the  throne 
of  eloquence.  The  pulpit  is  the  apocalypse  of  the 
soul.  It  is  nothing  if  it  do  not  deal  with  super- 
natural forces  and  supernatural  truths.  It  handles 
invisible  things  as  seen,  and  supersensuous  things 
as  felt.  We  should  be  open  to  suspicion  if  we  were 
to  claim  for  the  pulpit  such  a  place  as  the  ancients 
gave  to  their  secular  oratory,  a  place  among  the 
fine  arts  ;  in  the  most  illustrious  masters  of  pulpit 
power,  in  Massillon  and  Bossuet,  in  Chalmers  and 
Hall,  the  powers  of  the  poet,  of  music,  and  the 
drama  have  combined.      We  repeat  it,  the  man   in 


"DEAD  BUT  SCEPTRED  SOVEREIGNS."        23 

the  pulpit  is  permitted  to  enter  the  charmed  circle 
of  the  poet  and  the  musician.  Of  course  he  is  a 
metaphysician,  for  he  fetches  his  motive  powers  from 
invisible  worlds,  while  all  around  him  lie,  prompt  to 
obey  his  bidding  and  his  call,  the  presences  of  all 
the  continents  "  of  the  things  which  are  seen  and 
temporal  "  ;  he  may,  if  he  be  able,  press  into  his 
service  all  the  territories  and  continents  of  nature  ; 
over  them  all  he  may  sway  the  sceptre.  What  an 
elevation  for  his  throne !  While  round  the  bar,  the 
senate,  and  the  lecture  hall  rage  the  passions  of 
to-day,  this  is  as  the  telephone  of  eternity  speaking 
in  the  ear  of  time,  while  the  visions  it  unveils  are 
as  the  firmament  of  heaven  in  its  clearness. 

If  we  have  seen  few  of  these  things  in  the 
achievements  of  the  pulpit,  we  shall,  in  turn,  remind 
the  reader  that  every  artist  painter  is  not  a  Raphael 
or  a  Turner ;  but  men  are  proud  of  and  own  the 
achievements  in  their  art,  they  look  up.  Every  poet 
is  not  a  Dante  nor  a  Shakespeare,  but  he  looks  up 
to  them,  and  thinks  of  the  great  things  the  poet 
has  done.  Every  sculptor  is  not  a  Thorwaldsen, 
but  he  looks  up  to  him,  and  thinks  of  the  great 
things  his  art  has  done.  In  every  noble  art  it  is 
a  great  thing  for  the  student  to  look  up  ;  so  the 
man  who  believes  in  the  pulpit,  and  in  its  message, 
should  look  up  to  its 

*'  Dead  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns." 

But  the  course  of  our  remarks  may  have  conveyed 
the  idea  that  in  pulpit  eloquence,  for  all  legitimate 
effect,   action    is   to  be  deprecated  ;   not    so.      God's 


24  THE  THRONE    OF  ELOQUENCE. 

ministry  goes  on  by  various  means,  ordinary  and 
extraordinary  ;  that  is  the  difference  between  rivers 
and  rains,  between  dews  and  lightnings,  but  the 
rivers  and  the  dews  are  exhaled  by  the  sun,  and 
return  to  the  earth   both  as  rains  and   lightnings. 

The  traditions  of  Wesleyan  Methodism  in  England 
are  fond  of  recalling  the  scenery  of  Gwennap  Pit,  in 
the  county  of  Cornwall.  It  was  one  of  John 
Wesley's  most  magnificent  pulpits  ;  "  it  was  a  cove, 
a  huge  recess,"  a  natural  amphitheatre,  its  walls 
rising  several  thousand  feet  in  height.  It  was  capable 
of  holding  from  twenty-five  to  thirty  thousand 
persons.  This  was  one  of  Wesley's  most  famous 
churches,  a  vast  Byzantine  cathedral  among  the  wild 
moors  ;  once  a  year,  at  any  rate,  Wesley  preached 
in  it ;  he  preached  his  first  sermon  there  in  the  year 
1762,  his  last,  at  the  age  of  eighty-six,  in  1789  ; 
and  there,  from  year  to  year,  they  poured  in  from 
the  country  round  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  grey 
father,  as  he  stood  on  a  projecting  crag,  a  pulpit 
reared  by  nature,  from  whence  he  commanded  the 
mighty  crowd.  The  vast  space  was  filled  with 
rugged  miners  and  fishermen,  of  whom  it  had  been 
said  they  never  breathed  a  prayer,  except  for  the 
special  providence  of  a  shipwreck,  who,  as  the 
Cornish  wreckers,  with  wicked  barbarity  had  kindled 
delusive  lights  along  the  coast  to  allure  unfortunate 
ships  to  the  rugged  cliffs.  But  the  sceptre  of  the 
pulpit  had  passed  over  them  with  a  spell  of  Divine 
power ;  and  now  they  were  there,  miners  and 
smugglers  who  had  never  used  God's  name  except 
as  an  oath,  these  with  men  and  their  families,  less 
savage    but    not  less  ignorant,    from  their  shielings 


GWENNAP  PIT  A   THRO^STE.  25 

and  low  farmsteads  on  the  distant  heath.  So  they 
came  to  gladden  the  heart  of  the  old  patriarch  on 
the  wild  glen,  a  strange  spot,  and  not  unbeautiful, 
roofed  over  by  the  blue  heavens.  Amidst  the  yellow 
broom,  the  twittering  birds,  the  incense  of  heath 
flower,  and  the  scantling  of  trees,  amidst  the 
venerable  rocks,  it  must  have  been  wonderful  to  hear 
thirty  thousand  voices  welling  up,  and  singing 
Wesley's  own  words,  written  for  them — 

'*  Suffice  that,  for  the  season  past, 
Hell's  horrid  lang-uage  filled  our  tongues; 
We  all  Thy  words  behind  us  cast. 
And  rudely  sang  the  drunkard's  songs. 
But,  oh  !  the  power  of  grace  Divine, 
In  hymns  we  now  our  voices  raise. 
Loudly  in  strange  hosannahs  join, 
And  blasphemies  are  turned  to  praise." 

That  crag  rising  from  the  midst  of  Gwennap  Pit  has 
always  seemed  to  us  a  throne  of  pulpit  eloquence. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  that  singular  apparition, 
that  lightning  flash  in  the  shape  of  a  man,  White- 
field  .''  He  fell  into  no  grooves  of  church  routine 
or  life,  and  he  attempted  to  form  none  ;  he  was  a 
voice  and  nothing  more.  Like  Elijah  or  the  Baptist, 
he  came  like  thunder,  and  departed,  leaving,  even 
as  the  mighty  singers  leave,  the  tradition  of  a 
tone,  almost 

"  Like  lightning 
Which  doth  cease  to  be  e'er  you  can  say 
It  lightens!  " 

He  sprang  before  the  world,  ready  armed,  as  a 
youth  at  the  age  of  twenty.  Singular  how  many  of 
these  great  preachers  forbid  us  to  despise  their  youth, 


26  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQ^UENCE. 

like  Bossuet,  William  Jay,  Thomas  Spencer,  Charles 
H.  Spurgeon,  and  others.  Whitefield  finished  his 
course  in  the  prime  of  life.  He  seems  almost  to 
realise,  if  we  can  realise,  the  idea  of  an  abstract  soul. 
Read  his  words,  they  are  nothing  ;  but  those  words 
uttered  by  him  shattered  men,  broke  down,  over- 
whelmed, and  dissolved  all  prejudices.  What  must 
he  have  been  to  whom  such  strong  men,  highly 
cultured  men,  such  sceptical,  inaccessible  men  as 
Bolingbroke,  Chesterfield,  David  Hume,  David 
Garrick,  and  Benjamin  Franklin  were  as  "  tow,"  and 
he  as  a  "  spark  "  to  kindle  all  into  a  consuming 
flame,  a  mysterious  and  marvellous  creature,  an 
entire  soul  of  all-embracing  love  and  compassion  .-' 
He  fulfilled  that  great  condition  of  all  true  oratory. 
He  was  a  whole  man  to  one  thing  at  one  time, 
equally  at  home  in  preaching  in  the  select  saloons 
of  the  Countess  of  Huntingdon  to  dukes,  duchesses, 
and  congregations  of  peers,  or  to  the  wildest  and 
most  furious  and  even  murderous  mobs.  Whitefield 
is  a  mystery  to  us  ;  he  seems  to  burn  with  an  incan- 
descent heat,  so  that  words  shrivel  and  are  as 
nothing  before  that  pure,  ingenuous,  generous,  and 
wholly  consecrated  soul.  Yet  the  melody  of  that 
full,  clear,  all-encompassing  voice,  varying  to  every 
passionate  accent,  sinking  to  the  most  pathetic, 
swelling  to  the  most  rousing  apostrophe,  and,  in  the 
full  careering  heat  of  his  speech,  becoming  all 
unconsciously  to  himself  poet,  philosopher,  psycho- 
logist, bard,  everything,  this  enables  us  to  under- 
stand something  of  his  stupendous  power,  while  we 
are  perplexed  at  its  cause.  No  melody  of  poetry 
shines  through  the  words  of  his  published  discourses, 


WHITEFIELD.  2-j 

but  no  pictures  of  whispered  rapt  oratory  inflame 
so  much  as  those  we  meet  in  Whitefi  eld's  preaching. 
Compared  with  him,  the  mightiest  orators  we  have 
heard  or  known  seem  only  talkers.  It  was  the  same 
everywhere,  on  the  breast  of  the  mountain,  the  trees, 
and  hedges  full  of  people,  hushed  to  profound  silence, 
the  open  firmament  above  him,  the  prospect  of 
adjacent  fields,  the  sight  of  thousands  on  thousands 
of  people,  some  on  horseback,  and  all  affected  or 
drenched  in  tears.  Sometimes  evening  approaches  ; 
then  he  says,  "  Beneath  the  twilight  it  was  too  much 
for  me;  and  quite  overcame  me."  There  was  one 
night  never  to  be  forgotten  ;  it  lightened  exceedingly  ; 
his  spirit  rose  with  the  tempest  ;  he  preached  the 
warnings  and  the  consolations  of  the  coming  of  the 
Son  of  man.  The  thunder  broke  over  his  head ;  the 
lightning  shone  along  the  preacher's  path  ;  it  ran 
along  the  ground  in  wild  glares  from  one  part  of 
heaven  to  the  other  ;  the  whole  audience  shook  like 
the  leaves  of  a  forest  in  the  wind,  while  he  exclaimed, 
in  the  full  pathetic  majesty  of  his  wonderful  voice, 
"  Oh,  my  friends  !  the  wrath  of  God  !  the  wrath  of 
God !  "  Then  his  spirit  rose  higher,  and  passed 
right  through  the  tempest,  and  he  told  how  he 
longed  for  the  time  when  Christ  should  be  revealed 
in  flaming  fire.  "  Oh,"  exclaimed  he,  "  that  my 
soul  may  be  in  a  like  flame  when  He  shall  come  to 
call  me !  " 

"  To  him,  in  the  painful  stress 

Of  zeal  on  fire  from  its  own  excess, 
Heaven  seemed  so  vast,  and  earth  so  small, 
That  man  was  nothing,  since  God  was  all." 

This  would  be  all  imperfect — is,  perhaps,  imperfect 


28  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE:. 

— if  we  did  not  remember  that  the  world  can  well 
afford  a  prophet,  his  soul  all  on  fire  and  ablaze  with 
zeal  for  the  Lord  of  hosts,  coming  down  from  his 
rapt  communions  and  Divine  and  illuminating  per- 
ceptions. He  may  well  be  hailed,  when  it  is  known 
that  man  is  in  a  state  of  fearful  aberration  from  the 
rectitude  and  purity  of  the  Divine  law  ;  the  immense 
lapse  in  the  one  instance  may  well  permit  the  fearful 
thunders  of  Ezekiel  or  Nahum  to  roll  in  the  other, 
and  preaching  never  becomes  the  voice  o{  inspiration 
to  startle  and  alarm  until  the  infiniteness  of  Divine 
law  and  the  infinite  consequences  of  its  infractions 
are  perceived. 

Of  Whitefield,  John  Newton  said,  "  I  bless  God 
that  I  have  lived  in  his  time  ;  many  were  the  winter 
mornings  I  have  got  up  at  four  to  attend  his 
Tabernacle  discourses  at  five  ;  and  I  have  seen 
Moorfields  as  full  of  lanterns  at  these  times  as  I 
suppose  the  Haymarket  is  full  of  flambeaux  on  an 
opera  night.  As  a  preacher,  if  any  man  were  to 
ask  me  who  was  the  second  I  ever  had  heard,  I 
should  be  at  some  loss  ;  but  in  regard  to  the  first, 
Mr.  Whitefield  exceeded  so  far  every  other  man  of 
my  time  that  I  should  be  at  none.  He  was  the 
original  of  popular  preaching,  and  all  our  popular 
ministers  are  only  his  copies." 

And  is  it  unnatural  }  Is  it  only  in  the  material 
and  natural  world  that  lightnings  and  thunders  roll 
and  rend,  only  in  the  lower  heavens  that  their 
furies  are  seen  to  play }  Highest  minds  have  not 
judged  so — the  mind  has  its  tempests  which,  like 
tragical  Titans,  tear  the  heavens,  and  seem  to  pluck 
down  judgments — and  Whitefield  rent  men's  souls 


TABERNACLE  IN  TOTTENHAM  COURT  ROAD.  29 

as  he  stood  and   cried,  "  Oh,  my  friends  !  the  wrath 
of  God  !  the  wrath  of  God  !  " 

But  let  us  invite  to  a  scene.  Let  us  step  into  the 
famous  old  Tabernacle  in  Tottenham  Court  Road 
in  London,  one  of  those  vast,  plain,  square  buildings 
our  Puritan  forefathers  loved  to  erect.  See,  who 
are  gathered  here  this  evening  ?  What  a  mass ! 
what  an  audience !  Behind,  yonder,  in  the  gallery, 
see  that  face,  on  which  philosophic  calm  seems  to 
struggle  with  imaginative  sensuousness,  the  sceptic 
lip,  fastidious  and  cold  ;  that  is  David  Hume,  master 
of  English  diction,  apostle  of  atheism  and  fatalistic 
necessity,  the  historian  of  England,  who  has  also 
a  whole  webvvork  of  tentative  theologic  enigmas 
and  impossibilities  in  his  brain.  Yonder,  elegantly 
lounging,  is  the  epicurean  sneerer  Horace  Walpole, 
the  Earl  of  Orford,  novelist  and  virtuoso,  who, 
somewhat  rudely,  affects  indifference  to  the  preacher, 
and  especially  disgust  at  the  place.  And  see, — ah  ! 
there  is  our  old  friend  burly  Samuel  Johnson  in 
yonder  aisle  ;  he  arrives  somewhat  late,  and  has  to 
pay  the  penalty.  The  leviathan  of  literature,  the 
monarch  and  dictator  now  to  the  whole  world  of 
letters,  attracted  hither  by  the  fame  of  his  fellow- 
student  ;  and  do  our  eyes  deceive  us  }  no,  by  his 
side  his  companion  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  with  his 
immortal  ear  trumpet,  and  dear  old  Goldsmith ; 
they  are  here  to  snatch  lessons  which  may  serve 
them  in  a  very  different  world.  See,  there,  intensely 
interested,  are  two  whom  you  ought  to  know  ;  that 
short  man,  straining  forward  through  the  press,  is 
the  English  Roscius,  the  greatest  master  of  mingled 
tragic  and  comic  emotion  the  stage  has  ever  known, 


30  THE  THRONE    OF  ELOQUENCE. 

Garrick,    and    by    his    side    Shuter,    the     prince    of 
melodramatic  comedy,  who  has  confessed   to  some- 
thing more    than    curiosity,    and    has    acknowledged 
affectingly  the   power  of  the    preacher    in    striking 
light   through   his  being,   but    who   cannot   cast  the 
world  behind  his  back  and  say,  "  Thou  art  an  offence 
unto    me."      Did    you    ask    if   bishops    ever    came  ? 
Yes,   there  is   Warburton    yonder,   who  has    left  his 
wig  and  apron  behind   him,  impelled   by  irresistible 
curiosity,  advised  to  come  by  his  friend  Philip  Dod- 
dridge ;   but  not  a  little  savage  is  that   most  surly 
and  bad-tempered  of  prelates  to  find  a  work  done 
which  throws  all  the  pomp  of  his  truly  vast  scholar- 
ship into  the  shade.      You   should   notice    that   old 
lady  in  the  plain  and  quite  unfashionable  but  neat 
head-dress  beneath  the  unpretentious  bonnet,  and  in 
her  invariable   black   silk   gown.     Who }     Oh,  that 
is  the  Countess  of  Huntingdon,  who  has  compelled 
a  large  party  this  evening  to  listen  to  her  chaplain. 
The  old  gentleman,  in  the  corner  opposite  to  her, 
is  at  every  service  here  ;  this  chapel  is  his  constant 
place  of  worship,  but  he  has  a  name  in  history  ;  he 
is  the  loved  and  valued  friend  of  George  the  Third  ; 
it    is    Pulteny^    the    celebrated    Earl    of  Bath,    once 
Robert    Walpole's    great    antagonist ;     and    by    his 
side    the  Earl  of  Dartmouth,  to   whom   dear   John 
Newton  owes  his  episcopal  ordination,  and,  by-and- 
by,  his  rectory  of  Olney.     And  there  is  a  brilliant 
cluster   of  court    ladies.   Lady    Fanny    Shirley,   and 
Lady  Chesterfield,  and,  for  this  time,  that  arch  old 
plotter   Sarah,   Duchess    of  Marlborough,   wondering 
if  the  preacher  may  have    anything  to   say  to   her 
proud  hungry  heart.     But  is  it  not  wonderful  that 


TOTTENHAM   COURT  ROAD.  31 

the  man,  who  has  brought  together  all  these  strangely- 
incongruous  elements  of  literature  and  fashion,  should 
also  have  brought  William  Romaine,  Augustus 
Toplady,  'John  Fletcher,  and  William  Cowper  ? 
And  what  can  have  brought  Chesterfield,  Lord 
Chesterfield,  here  ? — the  high-priest  of  artifice  and 
politeness,  the  cold  and  courtly  author  of  those 
letters  which,  if  we  be  not  depraved  when  we  begin 
to  read,  will  effectually  give  to  us  so  much  forbidden 
fruit  that  depraved  we  certainly  shall  be  ere  we 
close  the  volumes. 

The  singing  is  over,  and  there  is  Whitefield  ! 
And  does  that  slender,  middle-sized,  unimposing 
man  know  the  audience  to  whom  he  speaks  ?  Does 
he  know  that  he  speaks  in  the  parliament  of  letters, 
of  theology,  of  fashion,  of  statesmanship  ?  Does 
he  know  that  before  him  are  hundreds  of  men  and 
women  whose  words  are  law  on  all  the  matters 
pertaining  to  their  own  worlds  ?  Yes,  he  knows 
it ;  he  is  amazed  at  their  presence,  but  he  cares 
not  for  it.  The  masters  of  taste  find  that  this  man 
obeys  none  of  their  laws  or  canons  ;  his  lightnings 
leap  over  their  narrow  boundaries,  and  the  masters 
of  fashion  are  compelled  to  own  that  the  innkeeper's 
son  has  somewhere  learnt  a  grace  and  harmony  not 
to  be  acquired  from  the  schools  of  Paris.  "  I  would 
give  a  twelvemonth's  income,"  whispers  Garrick,  "  to 
be  able  to  lift  my  handkerchief  like  that."  "  It  is 
worth  going  forty  miles  to  hear  him  pronounce  the 
word  Mesopotamia ! " 

Hush  !  no  need  to  say  that  ;  the  whole  audience 
is  hushed,  is  breathless  ;  of  what  is  he  talking  1 
The  madness,   the  folly,  the  blind  depravity  of  the 


32  THE  THRONE  OF  ELOQUENCE. 

sinner  ;  that  then  is  the  subject.  And  he  is 
describing  the  wanderings  of  a  poor  bhnd  beggar 
— not  a  very  attractive  subject  for  the  Humes  and 
Walpoles  and  Chesterfields — a  poor  blind  beggar, 
led  by  a  dog,  the  image  of  the  merely  natural 
reason  without  the  light  of  revelation  ;  a  poor  blind 
beggar,  wandering  in  a  dark,  wild  night  through 
cold  and  rain  and  tempest.  The  poor  wanderer 
wends  his  way  till  at  last  he  reaches  the  edge  of 
a  fearful  cliff  and  precipice  ;  he  does  not  know  the 
dread  and  danger  beneath  ;  he  does  not  know  that 
death  is  there, — that  abyss  !  His  dog  is  not  faithless, 
but  he  has  lost  his  way  ;  he  does  not  know,  the 
night  is  very  dark,  and  the  dog  has  taken  the  fatal 
step  ;  he  is  over  the  cliff,  but  still  the  poor  blind 
man  holds  on  ;  another  step,  another  step 

"  Good  Heavens  !  He's  Gone  !  Save  Him, 
Whitefield  ! " 

From  whence  did  that  come? — those  words  that 
thrilled  and  rang  through  the  chapel,  and  broke  the 
peroration  of  the  description.  Whence  }  From  a 
rustic,  and  all  those  scholars  and  peers  smile  con- 
temptuously .''  Not  so  ;  from  Chesterfield's  pew  ! 
from  Chesterfield  himself ! — that  cold  and  heartless 
follower  of  fashion,  whose  motto  for  all  society  was 
Nil  admirari,  whose  prime  article  of  creed  it  was 
to  school  and  discipline  all  the  passions  and  the 
feelings  so  that  they  should  never  be  observed  ;  he 
it  was  ;  he  was  quite  oblivious,  he  knew  not  where 
he  was,  but,  carried  away  and  carried  along  by  the 
pathos  of  the  speaker,  he  too  was  in  the  dark  and 
lonely  night,  near  the  blind  beggar  on  the  cliff,  and 
is  it  not  sad  that  he  did  not  see  himself  in  the  blind 


CHESTERFIELD  AND    WHITEFIELD.  2>}> 

beggar,  his  proud  reason  at  best  a  faithful  but  be- 
nighted dog,  pity  that  he  did  not  cry  to  Whitefield's 
Master  to  save  the  wandering  and  worldly  peer  ? 
But  surely  we  shall  not  doubt  that  this  plain  old 
pulpit,  in  that  plain  chapel,  in  the  dim  light  of 
candles  struggling  through  the  gloom,  was  truly  a 
throne  of  eloquence.* 

*  It  need  not  be  supposed  that  all  these  well-known  persons 
were  at  one  and  the  same  time  in  Tottenham  Court  Road 
Chapel ;  but  they  all  heard  Whitefield,  and  they  all  left 
substantially  that  impression  which  this  description  conveys  ; 
it  was  first  published  in  The  Lam^s  of  the  Temple ^  1856. 


CHAPTER    II. 

TONGUES  OF  FIRE, 

THE  reader  will  remember  that  in  the  parable 
of  the  great  dreamer  there  is  introduced  a 
town,  of  all  the  towns  in  the  world  the  most  wonder- 
ful, the  most  ancient,  the  most  powerful,  the  most 
glorious.  Other  towns  have  churches  and  cathedrals, 
but  there  would  have  been  no  churches  nor  cathe- 
drals but  for  this  town.  Other  towns  have  castles, 
moats,  and  fortifications,  but  there  would  have  been 
no  fortifications,  no  castles,  nor  bastions,  but  for  this 
town.  Other  towns  have  their  senate  houses,  parlia- 
ments, halls,  judicial  courts,  majesties,  and  thrones, 
but  they  are  all  the  shadows  falling  from  the  build- 
ings of  this  town.  Other  towns  have  had  their  battle 
scenes,  and  the  war  has  waged  through  their  streets, 
the  shock  of  the  lightnings  of  strife  blazed  over  their 
fields;  but  all  the  passions  of  the  battlefield  had  their 
origin  in  this  town.  Other  towns  have  their  palaces, 
but  there  is  no  palace  so  beautiful  and  so  brave  as 
the  palace  of  this  town,  none  with  furniture  so  rich, 
none  with  glory  so  brave  or  great  or  subduing.  We 
need  not  say  it   is  the  Town   of  Mansoul. 

Now  this  town  lies  open  to  the  sea — the  wonder- 
ful sea  ;  the  sea  flows  down  to  it  through  the 
rivers   and    the   bays  ;    all   its  wealth,  like   that   of. 


THE  TOWN  OF  MANSOUL—EARGATE.       35 


more  modern  towns,  lies  in  its  neighbourhood  to 
the  sea.  Strange,  land  lies  all  around  it,  but  it  lies 
open  to  the  great  world  to  which  it  belongs  by 
five  ports,  the  Cinque  Ports,  the  ports  themselves 
beautifully  constructed,  and  yet  as  nothing  to  the 
wealth  they  convey.  All  the  merchandise  of  pictures, 
of  charming  furnitures,  and  all  merchandise  of 
music,  of  organs,  of  viols,  and  of  harps,  and  all 
merchandise  of  spices  and  precious  gems,  and  all 
merchandise  of  clothing  and  food,  all  come  hither, 
borne  in  by  the  wondrous  waves  that  flow  up  to 
the  gates  of  those  ports  of  the  town  of  Mansoul, 
"  Five  gates,"  said  John  Bunyan  :  "  Ear  Gate,  Eye 
Gate,  Nose  Gate,  Mouth  Gate,  and  Feel  Gate,  but 
the  greatest  of  these  is  Ear  Gate!' 

Preachers  have  to  do  with  Ear  Gate.  But  often 
the  people  in  this  town  of  Mansoul  are  all  asleep 
over  the  whole  town,  as  if  it  were  an  enchanted 
palace.  The  people  within  are  wonderful  people,  but 
you  can  do  nothing  with  them  until  they  are  awake. 
One  of  the  first  of  all  conditions  is  to  awaken  the 
people  in  the  town  of  Mansoul.  There  is  a  well- 
known  story  in  the  history  of  one  of  our  earliest 
English  kings,  Richard  of  the  Lionheart.  On  his 
way  from  the  Holy  Land  he  was  taken  captive,  and 
imprisoned  in  a  dreary  castle  away  from  his  nation. 
At  last,  in  the  hands  of  his  enemies,  while  wonder 
was  dying  fast,  and  he  was  perishing  from  the 
memory  of  mankind,  he  was  discovered  in  a  strange 
manner.  He  had  a  favourite  minstrel,  Blondel,  who 
knew  that  his  master  and  his  king  was  confined  in 
some  cell  in  a  castle  among  dark  mountains  and 
forests  ;  he  travelled  from  one  to  the  other    waking 


36  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 

at  the  dungeon  bars  some  well-loved  melodies  from 
his  harp  ;  at  last  the  strain  from  the  harp  without 
was  answered  by  the  king  from  within  down,  in  the 
dungeon.  The  song  and  the  harp  of  the  minstrel 
thus  became  the  means  of  the  emancipation  of  the 
prince.  Thus  the  king  regained  his  throne,  and 
escaped  from  the  horrors  of  his  exile,  by  the  stray 
and  floating  air  which  had  carelessly  whiled  away 
his  hours  in  the  camp  or  in  the  lightsome  gaieties 
of  the  palace.  All  Europe  was  interested  in  the 
listening  ear  of  the  thrilled  king  to  the  lucid 
melodies  of  the  faithful  bard. 

Thus  the  spirit  of  man  sits  like  a  captive  king 
in  a  dungeon,  until  the  voice  of  the  Divine  music 
wakes  echoes  hitherto  unknown  along  his  prison- 
house,  and  stirs  him  with  new  knowledge,  new  con- 
sciousness. We  know  the  mighty  power  of  music, 
through  which  we  are,  perhaps,  most  nearly  related 
to  an  invisible  and  spiritual  world.  Mighty,  too,  is 
the  power  of  a  Divine  word  when  the  heart  knows 
it  and  owns  it ;  then  "  the  captive  exile  hasteth  to  be 
loosed."  The  senses  are  the  bars  of  the  prison. 
Behind  then,  and  within  every  body,  there  is  a  soul. 
God  can  make  the  words  answer  a  Divine  purpose. 
Preaching  and  all  its  auxiliaries  are  only  useful  to 
us  as  they  do  for  the  soul  what  Blondel  did  for  the 
king  Richard  :  waken  within  him  memory  or  hope, 
rousing  him  to  thoughts  of  a  world  beyond  his 
prison  bars,  beyond  his  exile,  wakening  him  to 
effort,  to  listen,  and  to  aspire,  and  every  minister 
should  be  as  a  Blondel  seeking  for  imprisoned  kings, 
alas  !  contented  with  their  chains,  or  sitting,  perhaps, 
in  despair,  in   their  dungeons  till  the  magic  chords 


THE  PRATER  DIABOLUS.  37 

stir  their  being.  This  is  the  mission  of  the  tongue 
of  fire,  to  call  on  imagination,  on  memory,  on  atten- 
tion, and  on  thought,  and  a  word  may  do  it  even 
as  we  read  the  Shields  of  Miltiades  would  not  permit 
Themistocles  to  sleep. 

First  of  all,  the  question  will  be  asked,  What  do 
you  mean  by  the  tongue  of  fire  ?  We  will  attempt 
in  one  word  to  give  the  answer  ;  we  mean  unction. 

The  mediaeval  legends  and  monkish  stories  lurk- 
ing about  in  the  Church  of  the  Dark  Ages  were 
many  of  them,  without  a  doubt,  foolish  enough  ;  but 
some  of  them  are  evidently  constructed  and  told 
with  a  wise  and  scarcely  hidden  purpose.  We  know 
of  none  more  singular  than  the  very  well-known 
story  of  the  strange  friar  who  appeared  in  a  certain 
monastery,  and  was  requested  by  the  abbot  to  preach 
in  the  church.  The  strange  friar  went  into  the 
pulpit,  and  astonished  the  Brothers  and  the  entire 
congregation.  His  discourse  produced  a  profound 
impression  ;  he  descanted  on  the  doom  of  the  lost 
until  the  blood  of  the  Brothers  curdled.  Altogether 
it  was  a  very  wonderful  discourse,  and  the  strange 
friar  stepped  from  the  pulpit  amidst  the  awestruck 
glancings  of  the  people,  whose  amazement  he  had 
inspired.  But,  saith  the  legend,  the  old  abbot  was 
not  taken  in  ;  following  the  strange  friar,  he  dis- 
covered that  he  was  the  veritable  enemy  of  man- 
kind, the  real  Frater  Diabolus.  He  expressed  to 
the  preacher  his  wonder  that  he  should  talk  in  such 
a  strain.  "  Think  you,"  exclaimed  the  devil,  "  that 
my  sermon  would  have  the  effect  of  teaching  one 
hearer  to  shun  eternal  damnation  .-' "  The  devil 
sneered  at  the  old  abbot   as  he  said,  "  I  made  them 


38  TONGUES  OF  FIRE, 


all  shiver  ;  I  did  not  make  one  of  them  weep  !  Think 
you  that  great  knowledge  and  great  eloquence  are  of 
any  use  without  great  unction  ?  My  sermon  was  a 
great  sermon,  but  it  would  do  me  no  harm.  It  had 
no  unction.^'  "Therefore,"  said  St.  Augustine  of  his 
own  preaching  and  his  audience,  "  I  did  not  think 
I  had  accomplished  anything  till  I  saw  them  in 
tears  ;  their  acclamations  showed  me  they  were  de- 
lighted, their  tears  showed  me  they  were  persuaded." 
Unction  then  is  the  tongue  of  fire ,  and  it  is  just 
the  very  gift  which  no  universities,  no  degrees,  no 
amount  of  learning  or  critical  attainment,  no  culti- 
vation of  the  science  of  belles  lettres,  or  rhetoric,  or 
elocution  can  bestow.  In  contrast  with  the  wild 
old  legend  we  have  just  quoted,  there  is  another 
story,  but  this  a  true  one,  and  not  a  mere  legend. 
A  certain  bishop,  eminent  not  only  as  a  preacher, 
but  for  his  purity  and  his  piety,  his  gentle  kindness 
and  meek  wisdom,  had  to  preach  in  a  certain  great 
church,  and  he  had  to  travel  very  far  to  fulfil  his 
engagement.  When  he  arrived  he  was  wearied  and 
unwell,  too  ill  to  speak,  and  he  begged  that  some 
one  might  be  appointed  to  occupy  his  place  in  the 
pulpit.  "  No,"  said  the  dean  or  the  minister  of  the 
church,  "  only  you  go  up  into  the  pulpit,  and  sit 
down,  and  look  at  the  people,  %nd  then  come  away." 
It  may  be  presumed  that  the  old  bishop  gave  his 
benediction,  but  the  story  tells  how  hearts  were 
touched,  how  the  people  burst  into  tears,  because, 
says  the  narrator  of  the  story,  he  was  a  man  of  such 
pure  devotion,  and  "  he  who  prays  much  is  filled 
with  a  power  of  touching  souls  which  is  quite  inex- 
plicable."     There  goes   forth  from   such  a  nature  a 


UNCTION  OF  THE  TONGUE  OF  FIRE.        39 


subtle  charm  and  influence,  such  a  man  has  felt  the 
"  powers  of  the  world  to  come,"  and  from  such  a 
nature  even  broken  and  unrhetorical  words  have 
been  proved  to  produce  effects  even  where  mighty 
masterpieces  have  failed.  But  when  the  tongue  of 
fire  sits  upon,  or  uses  as  its  vehicle,  a  high  intel- 
ligence, when  large  powers  are  chambers  through 
which  celestial  lights  and  fires  stream,  when  language, 
thought,  and  imagination  are  equally  and  alike 
enkindled,  it  surely  is  not  unnatural  to  expect 
effects  and  influences  corresponding  to  the  magni- 
ficent vocation.  The  best  history  of  the  pulpit, 
then,  is  the  story  of  the  tongue  of  fire,  from  that 
moment  when  we  read  of  the  "  cloven  tongues  of 
flame  "  sitting  on  the  brows  of  apostolic  men,  beneath 
whose  consecrating  touch  they  went  forth,  all  of 
them,  inspired  to  speak  with  tongues,  as  the  Spirit 
gave  them  utterance.  It  seems  only  possible  in 
this  way  to  account  for  the  amazing  number  of 
startling  episodes  in  the  history  of  the  Church,  in 
the  ages  of  the  Church  of  Rome  as  well  as  in  the 
Protestant  countries  and  times. 

Why,  this  tongue  of  fire  wrought  out  just  the 
very  creed  we  utter  in  all  our  churches.  It  was  the 
word,  not  of  an  Athanasius  nor  of  an  Aquinas,  but 
of  a  bold,  sharp,  simple  tongue.  We  know  the  story. 
But  in  the  story  of  the  Council  of  Nice  there  are 
two  incidents  which,  for  the  humour  of  the  one  and 
the  happy  teaching  of  the  other,  deserve  to  be 
borne  in  mind.  It  is  said  of  Nicolay,  Bishop  or 
Myra,  when  Arius  was  propounding  his  heresies  to 
the  Council,  that  the  Bishop,  quite  impatient  of  all 
argument,    lifted    his    fist    and    gave    to    the    great 


40  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 

heresiarch  a  smart  box  on  the  ear,  a  most  im- 
pressive argument,  and  in  spirit  often  followed 
since.  But  the  more  happy  incident  is  that  related 
of  Spiridion,  a  rude  shepherd.  We  are  told  that 
disputes  were  running  high,  and  the  philosophers 
were  sounding  on  their  perilous  way,  when,  before 
one  of  the  chief  archdisputants,  there  limped  the 
shepherd  Spiridion  ;  he  had  but  one  eye,  and  he 
had  a  limping  leg ;  he  had  lost  the  use  of  both 
in  the  heroism  of  martyrdom  for  the  faith,  and  now 
abruptly  he  broke  in,  and  said,  "  Christ  and  His 
apostles  left  us  not  a  system  of  logic  nor  a  vain 
deceit,  but  a  simple  truth,  to  be  guarded  by  faith 
and  good  works."  Turning  full  upon  the  disputants, 
especially  one  Eulogius,  nicknamed  Fair  Speech,  he 
said,  "  In  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  hear  me,  philo- 
sophers ;  there  is  one  God,  Maker  of  heaven  and 
earth  and  of  all  things  visible  and  invisible,  who 
made  all  things  by  the  word  of  His  power  and  by 
the  holiness  of  His  Holy  Spirit ;  this  word,  by  which 
name  we  call  the  Son  of  God,  took  compassion 
on  men  for  their  wanderings  astray  and  for  their 
savage  condition,  and  chose  to  be  born  of  a  woman, 
and  to  converse  with  men,  and  to  die  for  them  ;  and 
He  shall  come  to  judge  every  one  for  the  things 
done  in  life.  These  things  we  believe,  without 
curious  inquiry.  Cease,  then,  from  the  vain  labours 
of  seeking  proofs  against  what  is  established  by 
faith  and  the  manner  in  which  these  things  may 
be  or  may  not  be,  but,  if  thou  believest,  answer  at 
once  the  questions  as  I  put  them  to  you." 

The   philosopher   was   struck   dumb   by  this  new 
mode  of   argument.       He    could    only    reply   in    a 


AT  THE  COUNCIL    OF  NICE.  41 

general  way  that  he  assented.  "  Then,"  answered 
the  old  man,  "  if  thou  believest,  rise,  and  follow  me 
to  the  Lord's  house,  and  receive  the  sign  of  this 
faith."  The  philosopher  was  staggered  ;  he  turned 
to  the  crowd  of  his  disciples  and  said,  "  Hear  me, 
my  learned  friends.  So  long  as  it  was  a  matter  of 
words  to  words,  whatever  was  opposed  I  overthrew 
by  my  skill  in  speaking ;  but  when,  in  place  of 
words,  power  came  out  of  the  speaker's  lips,  words 
could  no  longer  resist  power,  man  could  no  longer 
resist  power  !  If  any  of  you  feel  as  I  have  felt,  let 
him  believe  in  Christ,  and  follow  this  old  man 
through  whom  God  has  spoken  ! "  And  does  not 
this  story  illustrate  what  we  mean  by  the  tongue 
of  fire  and  what  we  desire  the  power  of  the 
preacher  to  be,  the  magnetic  power  of  earnestness 
and  its  simplicity  over  argument  and  speculation  ? 

We  have  said  the  tongue  of  fire  is  the  power 
of  pathos  and  the  command  of  tears.  We  can 
trace  thus  the  progress  of  this  tongue  of  fire  in 
many  instances,  and  through  many  ages.  St. 
Bernard  seems  to  us  to  have  eminently  possessed 
the  tongue  of  fire ;  he  must  have  been  a  great 
preacher,  but  to  him  we  will  devote  a  separate 
chapter. 

In  many  stories  in  the  history  of  the  Church, 
those  words  seem  fulfilled,  "  I  will  make  the 
governors  of  Judah  like  a  hearth  of  fire  among  the 
wood,  and  like  a  torch  of  fire  in  a  sheaf,  and  they 
shall  devour  all  the  people  round  about  on  the  right 
hand  and  on  the  left."  Thus  the  tongue  of  fire  has 
often  swept  over  a  city  like  a  real  consuming  flame  ; 
and   ought  we   not   to  expect  it  to  be  so  when  we 


42  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 


read,  "  Is  not  My  word  as  a  fire?"  What  a  moment 
was  that  in  Florence,  in  1495,  when  //  Frati,  the 
Brother,  as  Savonarola  was  called,  was  preaching ! 
Judged  by  any  test,  he  was  a  wonderful  preacher  ; 
he  had  mighty  auxiliaries,  to  be  sure,  to  aid  him  : 
the  terror  of  the  plague,  the  shadow  of  the  pestilence, 
apparently  approaching,  the  fear  of  the  French 
army,  surely  marching  on  to  invade  ;  but  Italian 
historians,  like  Guicciardini,  pause  in  their  narrative 
to  express  their  wonder  at  the  voice  of  the  great 
preacher  of  St.  Mark's.  St.  Mark's  Church  was 
much  larger  then  than  that  which  many  of  us  have 
visited  ;  but  to  that  church,  night  after  night,  the 
whole  city  crowded  to  hear  the  monk's  exposition  of 
the  building  of  the  ark  and  the  judgment  of  the 
flood  ;  and  on  the  night  on  which  he  announced  that 
text  "  Behold,  I  will  bring  the  waters  over  the 
earth,"  it  is  said  it  was  as  if  a  thunderclap  burst 
over  the  city  ;  read  what  that  sermon  was  in  the 
ancient  pages  of  Vasari  or  the  modern  pages  of 
Trollope,  the  historian  of  Florence.  The  well-known 
Florentine  Pico  della  Mirandola,  who  was  present, 
said  afterwards  that  a  shudder  passed  through  all 
his  frame,  and  his  hair  stood  on  end  as  he  listened. 
Florence  was  at  that  time  probably  the  most 
dissolute  nook  in  all  Europe.  Even  its  high  artistic 
tastes  were  cultivated  to  the  extreme  of  depravity  ; 
but  before  this  preaching,  at  any  rate  while  it  lasted, 
it  all  went  down,  and  Vasari,  the  charming  bio- 
grapher of  Italian  artists,  tells  how  the  wanton 
pictures,  music,  sculptures,  and  paintings  were  all 
gathered  and  burned  in  an  immense  auto  da  f^,  in 
the  great  square  of  Florence.     The  scathings  of  the 


SAVONAROLA.  43 


preacher's  tremendous  eloquence  swept  swiftly  all 
around, and  immoral  popes, priests,  magistrates,  artists, 
and  poets,  were  alike  all  scorched  and  consumed 
by  words  which  burn  even  now,  as  we  read  them,  on 
the  cold  paper.  At  last  they  burnt  the  bold  preacher 
himself.  The  Pope  fulfilled  his  promise  made  when 
Savonarola  refused  a  Cardinal's  hat.  "  Then,"  said  he, 
"the  Brother  shall  have  a  martyr's  crown  !"  As  one 
of  the  bishops  said  in  condemning  him,  "Let  us  send 
him  to  death  ;  a  miserable  friar  more  or  less  is  of 
small  consequence."  "  I  separate  thee,"  said  the 
Bishop  of  Vasova,  in  pronouncing  the  sentence  of 
ecclesiastical  degradation,  "from  the  Church  mili- 
tant." "  From  the  Church  militant  you  may," 
answered  the  preacher,  "  but  not  from  the  Church 
triumphant  ;  that  is  not  given  to  thee."  The  words, 
like  others  of  dying  martyrs,  have  remained  in  the 
hearts  of  men  ever  since.  The  story  of  Savonarola 
is  a  wonderful  chapter  in  the  history  of  these  tongues 
of  fire,  and  the  pulpit  of  St.  Mark's  Church  was  a 
throne  of  eloquence. 

But  not  merely  to  recapitulate  instances,  shall  we 
employ  some  pages  in  remarking  on  the  vehicle  for 
the  tongue  of  fire  ?  The  meditation  upon  the 
tongue  of  fire  is  an  invocation  to  the  sanctification 
of  speech,  and  it  compels  to  reflection  on  that 
sublime  account  of  the  origin  of  speech,*  when 
Moses  said  unto  the  Lord,  "  O  my  Lord,  I  am  not 
eloquent.  ...  I  am  slow  of  speech,  and  of  a  slow  tongue. 
And  the  Lord  said  unto  him.  Who  hath  made  man's 
mouth  .^  or   who  maketh  the  dumb,  or  deaf,  or  the 

*  Exod.  iv.  II. 


44  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 

seeing,  or  the  blind  ?  have  not  I,  the  Lord  ?  now, 
therefore,  go,  and  I  will  be  with  thy  mouth  and  teach 
thee  what  thou  shalt  say."      As  the  faculty  of  speech 
especially  distinguishes  man  from  the  other  inhabitants 
of  the  earth,  so  sacred  speech  especially  distinguishes 
the   Christian   man    from    other  men.      Speech  is  a 
Divine  endowment  ;  on  the  tongue  of  fire  it  is  espe- 
cially a  sacred  gift.     "Who  hath  made  man's  mouth? 
have  not  I  ?  saith  the  Lord."      Mr.  Darwin,  as  readers 
will  remember,  in  the  second  volume  of  the  "  Descent 
of  Man,"   and    on    the    fifty-eighth    page,   confesses 
himself  especially    perplexed  ;    he   is   compelled    to 
admit  that  the  mere  law  of  evolution  is  insufficient, 
and  to  admit  that  speech  suggests  the  idea  of  special 
contrivances  ;  and  the  very  eminent  philologist,  our 
great  English  scholar.  Max  Miiller,  has  chosen  this 
as   the   ground   on   which   to  resist    the    Darwinian 
hypothesis  of  mind  considered  as  a  mode  of  matter 
and    material    evolution  :   "  Who    hath    made    man's 
mouth  ?  have  not  I  ?  saith  the  Lord."     If  we  debate 
the  question    as   to  whether  the  speech  or  the  pen 
has  exerted    most    influence    over    the  domains    of 
thought   and    the   progress   of  the    human   mind,  it 
must  be  admitted   at  once  that  speech  fetches  forth 
the  precognitive  idea,  and  gives  to  it  its  appropriate 
sign. 

Speech  is  the  morning  of  the  mind  ;  it  is  the 
Eothen,  the  dawn  ;  it  is  the  Eocenic  period  in  the 
history  of  the  soul  ;  speech  is  the  identification  of 
that  intelligence  by  which  the  enchanting  images 
and  ideas,  which  were  dark  and  buried  in  the  mind, 
are  spread  abroad  ;  it  is  "  like  morning  spread  upon 
the  mountains."     Speech  is  the  glorious  endowment 


SPEECH.  45 

which  constitutes  the  bard,  the  poet,  the  orator,  the 
singer,  in  a  word  the  namer  ;  but,  being  this,  it 
touches  two  worlds,  a  world  which  is  around  us, 
which  we  can  see  and  analyse,  the  world  of  the  pen ; 
but  it  touches  also  the  world  which  rises  out  of 
definitions  into  undefinable  emotions.  Hence  speech 
makes  us  conscious  of  that  surprise  power  which 
has  been  said  to  be  one  of  the  most  eminent  faculties 
of  the  tongue  of  fire.  "  Gentlemen,"  said  Fichte,  as 
he  went  into  his  class  one  morning,  "  I  want  you  to 
think,  the  wall,  that  wall.  Have  you  thought  the 
wall  1  Now  I  want  you  to  think  the  man  that 
thought  the  wall !  "  It  was  his  way  of  compelling 
his  student  to  separate  the  consciousness  itself  from 
that  mere  knowledge  by  which  the  consciousness 
became  conscious.  We  wake  to  consciousness 
through  words ;  we  become  aware  of  ourselves  ;  it  is 
by  speech,  by  spoken  words,  we  learn  to  discriminate 
what  we  are  from  what  we  see  and  from  what  we 
touch.      Hence  it  is  by  speech  we 

"  Enter  the  sacred  temple  of  the  breast, 
And  walk  and  gaze  about  an  honoured  guest." 

Speech  is  the  naming  of  the  universe  and  all  its 
furniture.  Speech  it  is  by  which  men  are  related  to 
each  other,  by  which  we  enter  each  other's  minds, 
and  by  which  we  become  aware  of  the  minds  of  the 
masters  of  our  race.  And  not  only  so.  Speech  is 
the  wonderful  and  august  power  by  which  we  catch 
the  fleeting  fancies  of  the  mind,  the  aerial  visitants 
of  thought  and  feeling  ;  and,  as  imagination  bodies 
them  forth,  we  detain  them,  and  give  to  them 

"  A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 


46  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 


And  all  this  is  done  before  the  Pen  begins  its  work. 
Speech  on  the  Tongue  has  its  sceptre  in  the  present 
generation  ;  Speech  in  the  Pen  is  like  the  sceptre  in 
the  hand  of  a  dead  prince  :  it  is  wielded  over  genera- 
tions yet  to  come,  who  yet  are  moulded  by  the  living 
v/ord.  How  vainly  we  strive  to  realise  on  the 
dead  page  and  the  printers'  words  either  Pericles'  or 
Chatham's  tongue  of  fire.  Far  be  it  from  us  to 
depreciate  the  power  of  the  Pen  ;  but  almost  its  best 
commendation  is  that  it  records  the  victories  of  the 
tongues  of  fire.  Great  historians,  we  often  think, 
remind  us  of  the  judicial  power  of  the  Pen  ;  in 
their  hands  it  becomes  a  true  sceptre  ;  it  is  mightier 
than  the  sword,  mightier  than  the  globe  grasped  by 
the  monarch,  the  symbol  of  dominion  and  rule  ;  it  is 
the  true  arbiter,  and  the  monarchs  and  emperors  of 
past  ages  wait  upon  its  awards.  The  Pen  confers 
immortality  on  princes  ;  when  the  hand  is  paralysed, 
and  the  ploughshare  has  passed  over  the  place 
where  once  stood  the  throne  of  an  illustrious 
dynasty,  the  Pen  will  preserve  the  name  of  the  prince 
in  the  literary  and  historic  archives.  The  Pen 
writes  down  the  deeds  of  the  great  captain,  whose 
sword  swept  like  lightning  round  the  nations  in  his 
day  ;  he  is  not  only  conquered  by  death,  he  is 
conquered  by  the  Pen,  His  place  in  history  waits 
on  its  award.  Is  it  not  very  strange  to  think  how 
we  little  men  sit  in  judgment  on  the  crimes 
and  the  careers  of  men  who  would  have  made 
us  tremble,  who  made  the  whole  world  tsemble 
while  they  lived  .''  Why,  nothing  can  make 
Macaulay  think  of  the  great  Marlborough  but  as  a 
mean   miser,   a  treason-hatching  traitor,  who  bought 


THE  JUDICIAL  POWER   OF  THE  PEN.      47 

a  place  of  power  by  the  sale  of  his  sister's  honour, 
who  maintained  it  by  involving  his  country  in  debt 
that  he  might  pocket  the  gains,  who  sold  one 
sovereign  and  was  preparing  to  sell  another.  Yes, 
the  Pen  enables  us  to  say  that.  Thus  the  Pen,  the 
awful  Pen,  sits  like  an  avenging  fate  upon  the 
memories  of  men  and  seals  them  with  its  irrever- 
sible seal.  Is  it  not  powerful  .■'  is  it  not  as  wonderful 
as  powerful  .■'  You  see  a  prince  like  our  Henry  the 
Eighth,  with  the  intellectuality  of  a  man  and  the  will 
of  a  beast.  You  see  a  man  like  Philip  the  Second  of 
Spain  or  James  the  Second  of  England,  who,  in  the 
menagerie  of  kings,  may  pass  for  hyenas.  You 
see  creatures  like  the  Duke  d'Alva,  like  Bonner, 
like  Jeffries.  These  men  could  make,  did  make, 
gloried  in  making  poor  weak  women  tremble. 
You  figure  them  with  bloodshot  eye,  and  white- 
lipped  or  lipless  mouths,  and  cruel  tusks  and  teeth, 
glaring  and  champing  over  their  thwarted  will,  or 
standing  gloating  over  the  bleeding  corpse  of  their 
victim.  How  indignant  you  feel  !  Be  quiet,  be 
quiet  ;  History  has  them  all  safe  ;  they  are  bound  in 
the  Chains  of  the  Pen  ;  they  cannot,  they  shall  not 
get  free  ;  they  are  fast.  In  the  day  of  their  power 
how  they  would  have  sneered  at  the  poor  Grub-street 
crew  !  Who  so  contemptible  as  the  poet,  the 
historian,  the  chronicler  .-*  Him  !  neither  gartered  nor 
starred  nor  titled  !  Him  !  Conciliate  him  !  No. 
Away  with  him  !  Put  him  in  the  pillory,  in  the  stocks, 
in  pri|pn.  Away  with  him  to  the  quartering  knife  of 
the  hangman  !  See  Defoe  standing,  in  fact,  in  the 
pillory,  and  composing  a  song  in  honour  of  it !  See 
old  Johnson,  scourged  at  the  cart's  tail  through  the 


48  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 

streets  of  London  !  See  Alice  Lisle,  venerable  and 
glorious  matron,  led  to  the  block  !  See  Elizabeth 
Gaunt,  sweet-hearted  woman,  led  to  the  stake  only  for 
daring  to  give  bread  to  the  hungry  !  See  Banyan 
in  prison  for  twelve  years,  and  George  Fox  in 
nearly  all  the  prisons  in  England !  See  Vane,  and 
Russell,  and  Sydney  before  the  block  !  Be  quiet, 
be  quiet !  suppress  your  indignation  ;  the  memory  of 
the  victim  and  the  tyrant  are  both  in  the  keeping  of 
the  Pen.  Your  Pen  is  the  true  lord  keeper  of  the 
consciences  of  all  ages.  It  is  the  Pen  that  haunts 
and  dogs  the  steps  of  tyrants  with  the  everlasting 
scream  of  execration  ;  the  Pen  raises  against  them 
the  avenging  hiss.  The  Pen,  in  the  hands  of  one 
they  would  have  treated  with  contempt  or  ignomini- 
ously  consigned  to  a  cruel  doom,  is  their  judge,  jury, 
sentence,  and  executioner  !  * 

And  we  repeat  all  this  because  it  is  supposed  that 
we  have  reached  a  day  when  the  Pen  has  quite 
eclipsed  the  pulpit ;  it  is  said  that  men  take  up 
the  productions  of  the  Pen  with  all  their  faculties 
awake  for  enjoyment,  but  the  pulpit  has  become 
a  weariness  ;  but  can  it  be,  then,  that,  somehow, 
the  fire  which  once  glowed  in  the  pulpit  has  been 
transferred  to  the  Pen  t  Has  the  Pen  become,  as 
the  pulpit  has  ceased  to  be,  a  tongue  of  fire  }  It 
was  with  reference  to  this  that  the  greatest  teacher 
of  our  times,  Thomas  Carlyle,  said,  "That  a  man 
stand    in   a  pulpit,    and    speak    of   spiritual    things 


•  I  have  thought  it  not  impertinent  to  the  purpose  of  this 
chapter  to  quote  this  passage  from  my  "  Thomas  Carlyle, 
Thinker,  Theologian,  Historian,  and  Poet." 


HOW  AND    WHAT  TO  PREACH.  49 

to  man.  It  is  beautiful !  Even  in  its  great  obscura- 
tion and  decadence,  it  is  among  the  beautifullest, 
most  touching  objects  one  sees  on  the  earth.  This 
speaking  man  has,  indeed,  in  these  times  wandered 
terribly  from  the  point,  has,  alas  !  as  it  were,  totally 
lost  sight  of  the  point.  Yet,  at  bottom,  whom  have 
we  to  compare  with  him  }  Of  all  public  function- 
aries boarded  and  lodged  on  the  industry  of  modern 
Europe,  is  there  one  worthier  of  the  board  he  has, 
a  man  even  professing,  and  never  so  languidly 
making,  still  endeavour  to  save  the  souls  of  men  } 
I  wish  he  could  find  the  point  again,  this  speaking 
one,  and  stick  to  it  with  deadly  energ>',  for  there  is 
need  of  him  yet.  Could  he  but  find  the  point  again, 
take  the  old  spectacles  off  his  nose,  and,  looking  up, 
discover  what  the  real  Satan,  the  world-devouring 
devil,  now  is  !  Will  he  discover  our  real  Satans 
whom  he  has  to  fight,  or  go  on  droning,  through  his 
old  horn  spectacles,  about  old  extinct  Satans,  and 
never  see  the  real  one  till  he  feel  him  at  his  throat 
and  ours }  I  wish  the  speaking  one  could  find  his 
point  again."  This  is  certain :  until  he  shall  find 
his  point  there  will  be  no  real  unction,  no  tongue  of 
fire.  Where,  then,  is  its  point  of  contact  for  kindling 
the  flame  ,'' 

Daniel  Webster,  the  great  American  orator,  who 
was  a  statesman  and  not  a  preacher,  used  to  say, 
"  Preachers  should  take  a  text  from  St.  Paul,  and 
preach  from  the  newspapers."  Luther  was  asked 
how  h%  preached  so  successfully.  Luther's  audience 
was  very  frequently  composed  of  scholars  and  the 
magnates  of  society,  but  he  replied,  "  I  do  not 
preach  in  a  way  to  suit  learned  men  and  magistrates, 

4 


50  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 

but  I  always  try  to  preach  so  as  to  suit  the  poor 
women,  the  children,  and  the  servants."  And 
Wesley  used  to  say  to  his  preachers,  "  Use  the  most 
common,  little,  easy  words  in  the  language."  More  to 
the  point  of  the  present  age,  Roger  Ascham  used 
to  say,  "  We  preachers  ought  to  think  like  great  men, 
but  speak  like  common  people."  The  history  of  the 
pulpit  in  all  ages  would  furnish  us  with  admirable 
and  useful  anecdotes  and  illustrations  of  the  way  in 
which  this  Divine  simplicity  has  become  an  immense 
power  for  usefulness.     As  Cowper  says, 

**  I  seek  Divine  simplicity  in  him 
Who  handles  things  Divine." 

A  well-known  minister,  now  in  London,  when  in 
Inverness,  had  invited  another  preacher  to  occupy 
his  pulpit  ;  and  a  stranger  had  inquired  how  the 
strange  minister  had  been  liked  the  preceding 
Sunday  at  the  Kirk  ;  and  the  reply  was,  "  Weel,  he 
carries  a  braw  rod  and  a  bonny  lang  line,  but  eh  ! 
mon,  there  is  neither  hook  nor  bait  at  the  end  of 
it  !  "  Useful  preaching  has  a  hooking  power.  "  That 
is  a  good  sermon,"  says  Matthew  Henry,  "which 
does  thee  good."  When  we  speak  of  the  tongues  of 
fire  it  is  well  to  remember  that  the  most  extensive 
influence  for  usefulness  has  not  always  emanated 
from  sermons  either  most  elaborately  prepared, 
or  most  in  harmony  with  the  highest  classical  and 
rhetorical  rules  of  composition.  Some  of  the  most 
useful,  it  is  said,  have  sinned  against  every  precept 
of  the  schools.  Scottish  church  history  makes 
mention  of  a  sermon  preached  by  John  Livingstone, 
of  the  Kirk  of  Shott'^,  which  proved  effective  to  the 


POLISHED  AND  PLAIN  PREACHING.       51 

conversion  of  five  hundred  persons  ;  but  not  a  word 
of  the  sermon  was  ever  written,  and,  from  what  we 
know  of  the  excellent  preacher,  it  was  very  likely 
exceedingly  rude  and  homely.  But  it  did  its  work. 
We  have  often  been  reminded  of  a  singular  illustra- 
tion employed  by  a  very  useful  Primitive  Methodist 
minister  in  conversation  with  the  highly  accomplished 
and  finished  orator  Dr.  Robert  McAll.  McAU  was 
deploring  to  his  ruder  brother  that,  with  all  his  fame 
and  popularity,  he  could  not  congratulate  himself  on 
being  eminently  useful,  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
his  Primitive  Methodist  friend  was  really  renowned 
for  solid  and  abiding  usefulness,  and  the  Methodist 
said,  "  You  see.  Doctor,  the  difference  between  us  is 
something  like  this.  You  are  a  great  lapidary,  and 
wonderful  at  polishing  and  carving  stones.  And 
you  go  down  to  the  seaside,  and  you  pick  up  a 
likely  stone,  one  that  you  think  very  beautiful,  and 
you  bring  it  up  into  your  study,  and  polish  it, 
and  round  it,  and  finish  it  off,  and  then  you  take 
it  and  throw  it  among  the  crowd.  Well,  at  the  best, 
supposing  it  to  hit,  it  only  hits  one  person,  but, 
perhaps,  by  the  vehemency  and  force  with  which 
you  throw  it,  it  goes  far  away,  beyond  the  crowd 
altogether.  Now,  that's  not  my  way.  I  am  no 
lapidary.  I  cannot  polish  stones,  but  I  go  down  to 
the  seaside,  just  where  you  went,  and  fill  my  pockets 
with  stones,  and  I  come  back  and  throw  them  in 
good  handfuls  among  the  crowd,  and  they  are  pretty 
sure  to  hit  some."  As  we  said  just  now,  useful  preach- 
ing has  not  only  a  hooking,  it  has  a  hitting  power. 

To    turn     to    quite    another    line    and    order    of 
thought,  we  see  qrite  different  estimates  are  formed 


52  TCNGUES  OF  FIRE. 

of  what  constitutes  the  tongue  of  fire.  For  a  long 
time  it  was  supposed  to  consist  in  rich  and  rounded 
language,  a  pomp  of  words  and  diction  set  in  a 
studied  pomp  of  delivery.  We  believe  eloquence 
in  our  times  has  passed  into  quite  another  method. 
We  have  no  doubt  our  readers  are  perfectly  familiar 
with  the  very  charming  essay  of  David  Hume  "  On 
the  Eloquence  of  the  Ancients."  Cold  sceptic  as 
he  was,  he  appears  to  have  admitted  the  fervid  glow 
of  the  words  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero  ;  he  refers, 
as  an  illustration,  to  the  language  of  Cicero  on  the 
tragic  crucifixion  of  a  Roman  citizen,  in  which  ihe 
impassioned  orator  lifts  up  his  voice  to  the  most 
desolate  solitude  of  rocks  and  mountains,  and 
expects  to  see  those  rude  and  inanimate  parts  of 
nature  moved  with  horror  and  indignation  at  the 
recital  of  so  enormous  an  action.  "With  what  a  blaze 
of  eloquence,"  says  Hume,  "  must  such  a  sentence 
be  surrounded  to  give  it  grace  or  to  cause  any 
impression  on  the  hearers ! "  Cold  sceptic  as  he 
was,  Hume  evidently  admires  this,  this  rush  of  feel- 
ing, this  torrent,  this  cataract  of  words,  mirroring,  as 
it  rushed  along,  tropes  and  images  with  a  correspond- 
ing action  exhibiting  the  extraordinary  inflammatory 
passions  boiling  beneath,  or  seeming  to  do  so. 

The  age  of  "  blazing  eloquence " — we  quote 
Mr.  Hume's  words — has  passed.  Prosopopoeia,  per- 
sonification, and  apostrophe  affect  us  no  more ;  if 
it  were  that  ancient  preachers  belie\ed  too  much  in 
starch  and  frills,  we  think  it  must  be  admitted 
that  most  of  us  moderns  are  far  too  slovenly.  We 
believe  with  Hume  that  we  could  not  now  endure 
such  poetical    figures   as    Cicero    employs    or    such 


DA  VID  HUME  ON  "  BLA  ZING  EL  O  Q  UENCE. ' '     53 

language  as  Demosthenes',  as  when  he  breaks  out, 
"  No !  my  fellow-citizens.  No,  you  have  not  erred. 
I  swear  by  the  spirits  of  those  heroes  who  fought 
for  the  same  cause  on  the  plains  of  Marathon  and 
Platea."  In  fact,  of  such  eloquence  we  could  almost 
believe  and  hope  we  have  seen  the  last  ;  we  fancy 
Cicero  would  often  be  intolerable,  and  Demosthenes 
would  be  sustained  chiefly  by  his  rough — may  we 
not  say  his  coarse  ? — invective.  Could  we  bear  to 
hear  that  apostrophe  even  of  Whitefield,  which  Hume 
himself  records,  and  which  surely  was  in  the  spirit  of 
the  eloquence  of  the  ancients,  when,  in  impassioned 
grandeur,  conceiving  the  angel  to  be  present,  but 
departing,  he  exclaimed,  "Stop,  Gabriel,  and  bear  to 
heaven  the  tidings,"  etc. .-'  Not  often,  we  think,  would 
Mr.  Spurgeon  indulge  in  such  passages  as  that  in 
which  he  imagines  the  Judge  of  all  to  be  closing 
the  tragedy  of  time — "  Gabriel,  is  the  last  elect 
soul  safe  in  and  home.?"  "Yes,  Lord."  "Then 
close  the  great  gates,  and  throw  the  keys  into  the 
abyss  of  the  pit."  It  is  only  in  certain  states  of 
society  and  of  feeling  that  such  rapt  utterances 
can  be  indulged.  We  have  relegated  to  poetry  such 
bold  imagery,  and  we  know  few  things  of  the  order 
finer  than  James  Montgomery's  lines  on  the  Cruci- 
fixion ;  once  their  spirit  and  accent  might  have  been 
tolerated  in  oratory  ;  they  find  their  vehicle  in 
verse,  and,  divested  of  their  verse  form,  they  may 
even  be  given  as  a  fine  illustration  of  that  of  which 
Hume  speaks  as  "  blazing  eloquence,"  apostrophe 
and  personification  in  a  passion  of  indignation  : — 

"I  asked  the  heavens,  '  What  foe  to  God  hath  done 
This  unexampled  deed  ? '     The  heavens  exclaim, 


54  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 

*  'Twas  man  ;  and  we  in  horror  snatched  the  sun 
From  such  a  spectacle  of  guilt  and  shame.' 

I  asked  the  sea.  The  sea  in  fury  boiled, 

And  answerecjl  with  his  voice  of  storms,  '  'Twas  man ; 

My  waves  in  panic  at  his  crime  recoiled, 

Disclosed  the  abyss,  and  from  the  centre  ran.' 

I  asked  the  earth.     The  earth  replied  aghast, 

*  'Twas  man  ;  and  such  strange  pangs  my  bosom  rent 
That  still  I  groan  and  shudder  at  the  past.' 

To  man,  gay,  smiling,  thoughtless  man,  I  went, 
And  asked  him  next.     He  turned  a  scornful  eye, 
Shook  his  proud  head,  and  deigned  me  no  reply." 

The  tongue  of  fire  on  the  throne  of  eloquence  has, 
however,  manifested  itself  in  marvellously  various 
ways,  and  the  memory  of  apostrophe  in  the  pulpit 
not  unnaturally  recalls  the  instance  of  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  of  preachers,  the  most  celebrated, 
we  suppose,  of  all  Portuguese  divines,  who  has  been 
called  by  his  countrymen  the  last  of  the  mediaeval 
preachers — Antonio  Vieyra.  It  is  to  be  lamented 
that  we  know  so  little  of  him  and  have  so  few 
illustrations  of  his  really  great  and  burning  dis- 
courses ;  and  for  the  little  that  we  know  of  him,  we 
are  indebted  to  Dr.  J.  M.  Neale.  He  was  born  in 
1608,  and  died  in  1697.  -^^  a  preacher,  as  a 
diplomatist,  and  a  great  and  successful  missionary,  he 
was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  characters  Europe 
has  ever  known.  He  had  a  mighty  acquaintance  with 
Scripture  ;  the  illustration  we  present  shows  a 
terrible  power  of  irony ;  but  he  had  a  searching 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart  which  has  led  some 
to  compare  him  with  Massillon.  The  following 
strange  Sermon  to  the  Fishes,  while  it  has  the  wit 
and  humour  of  Quevedo  or  Cervantes,  shines  and  cuts 


ANTONIO  VIEYRA-SERMON  TO  THE  FISHES.   55 


like  a  keen  Damascus  blade  ;  but  it  does  not.  give 
a  full  idea  of  the  holy  purity  of  the  man  ;  it  was 
preached  at  Maranhao,  on  the  coast  of  South  America, 
which  was  said  to  be  the  most  scandalously  demora- 
lized place  of  any  inhabited  by  Christians  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  ;  and  it  certainly  is  an  illustration  of 
scathing  and  searching  severity,  with  which,  indeed, 
many  of  his  sermons  abounded,  although  they  exhibit 
nothing  of  the  coarse  buffoon  or  the  low  droll. 
Indeed,  whatever  readers  may  think  of  the  extracts 
we  give  from  the  following  sermon,  majesty  and 
grandeur  were  the  attributes  of  the  preacher.  The 
text  was,  "  Ye  are  the  salt  of  the  earth'^ 

Sermon  to  the  Fishes. 

"  What !  and  are  we  to  preach  to-day  to  the  fishes?  No 
audience  can  be  worse.  At  least  fishes  have  two  good 
qualities  as  hearers  :  they  can  hear,  and  they  cannot  speak. 
One  thing  only  might  discourage  the  preacher  :  that  fishes 
are  a  kind  of  race  who  cannot  he  converted.  But  this  circum- 
stance is  here  so  very  ordinary  that  from  custom  one  feels  it  no 
longer.  For  this  cause,  I  shall  not  speak  to-day  of  heaven 
or  of  hell ;  and  thus  this  sermon  will  be  less  gloomy  than 
mine  are  usually  considered,  from  putting  men  continually 
in  remembrance  of  these  two  ends. 

^,  *  *  *  * 

"  To  begin,  then,  with  your  praises,  fishes  and  brethren.  I 
might  very  well  tell  you  that,  of  all  living  and  sensitive 
creatures,  you  were  the  first  which  God  created.  He  made 
you  before  the  fowls  of  the  air ;  He  made  you  before  the 
beasts  of  the  earth  ;  He  made  you  before  man  himself 
God  gave  to  man  the  monarchy  and  dominion  over  all  the 
animals  of  the  three  elements,  and  in  the  charter  in  which 
He  honoured  him  with  these  powers,  fishes  are  the   first 


56  TONGUES  OF  FIR^. 

named.  Let  them  have  dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  and 
over  the  fowl  of  the  air,  and  over  the  cattle.  Among  all 
animals,  fishes  are  the  most  numerous  and  the  largest.  .  .  . 
For  this  reason,  Moses,  the  chronicler  of  the  creation,  while 
he  does  not  mention  the  name  of  other  animals,  names  a 
fish  only.  God  created  great  whales.  And  the  three 
musicians  of  the  furnace  of  Babylon  brought  forward  in 
their  song  the  name  of  the  same  fish,  with  especial  honour : 
O  ye  whales,  .  .  .  bless  ye  the  Lord.  These  and  other 
praises,  then,  and  other  excellences  of  your  creation  and 
greatness,  I  might  well,  O  fishes,  set  before  you ;  but 
such  a  matter  is  only  fit  for  an  audience  of  men  who  permit 
themselves  to  be  carried  away  by  these  vanities,  and  is  also 
only  suited  to  those  places  where  adulation  is  allowed,  and  not 
in  the  pulpit. 

"...  Great  praise  do  ye  7nerit,  O  fishes,  for  the  respect 
and  devotion  ivhich  ye  have  had  to  the  preacher  of  the  word 
of  God,  and  so  much  the  more  because  ye  did  not  exhibit 
it  once  only.  Jonah  went  as  a  preacher  of  the  same  God, 
and  was  on  board  a  ship  when  that  great  tempest  arose. 
Uotu  did  men  then  treat  him,  and  how  did  fishes  treat  him  ? 
Men  cast  him  into  the  sea,  to  be  eaten  by  fishes ;  and  the 
Ush  which  followed  him  carried  him  to  the  shores  of 
Nineveh,  that  he  might  there  preach,  and  save  those  men. 
Ls  it  possible  that  fishes  should  assist  in  the  salvation  of  men, 
and  that  men  should  cast  into  the  sea  the  ministers  of 
salvation  ?  Behold,  fishes,  and  avoid  vainglory — how  much 
better  are  ye  than  men  !  " 

Passing  over  his  next  division,  in  which  he  says, 
"  Fishes,  by  how  much  farther  you  are  from  man  by 
so  much  the  better  !  "  and  his  droll  illustration  of  the 
flood,  "  when  of  the  fishes  not  only  all  escaped,  but 
were  much  more  at  liberty  than  before,  because  the 
land  and  sea  were  all  sea  !  "  and  some  other  favour- 


SERMON  TO    THE  FISHES.  57 

able  aspects  presented  to  him  by  fish,  he  proceeds  to 
the  items  of  blame. 

"  The  first  thing  which  does  not  edify  me  in  you,  fishes, 
is  that  you  eat  one  another,  a  great  scandal  in  itself,  but 
the  circumstances  make  it  worse  :  you  not  only  eat  one 
another,  but  the  great  eat  the  little ;  if  the  contrary  were  the 
case,  the  evil  would  be  less ;  if  the  little  ate  the  great,  one 
would  suffice  for  many,  but  as  the  great  eat  the  little,  a 
hundred,  nay,  a  thousand,  do  not  suffice  for  one.  I  preach 
to  you,  fishes,  to  show  how  abominable  is  the  custom. 
Look,  fishes,  from  the  sea  to  the  land !  No,  no,  it  is  not 
that  way  I  mean  ;  you  are  turning  your  eyes  to  the  forests ; 
here  !  here !  It  is  to  the  city  you  must  look !  Do  you 
think  that  it  is  only  the  Indians  who  eat  each  other?  White 
men  eat  each  other  far  more  !  Is  any  one  of  them  dead,  they 
all  fall  upon  the  miserable  man  ;  his  heirs  devour  him ;  his 
legatees  devour  him ;  his  executors  devour  him  ;  his  credi- 
tors devour  him  \  the  commissioners  devour  him  \  the 
physician,  who  helped  to  kill  him,  devours  him ;  he  is 
devoured  by  the  grave-digger,  by  the  bell-ringer,  by  the 
priest.  The  poor  man  is  not  yet  swallowed  up  by  the  earth, 
but  he  is  already  swallowed  up  by  its  inhabitants." 

In  closing  this  chapter,  we  may  be  reminded  that 
the  voice  of  the  pulpit  and  its  tongue  of  fire  have 
sometimes  found  a  free  course  even  in  the  very 
face  of  the  flames  which  were  about  to  consume  the 
body  of  the  preacher.  When  Jean  de  Caturce  was 
brought  forth  to  be  burned  in  Toulouse,  a  pulpit 
was  set  up,  and  a  friar  stepped  into  it,  appointed  by 
his  church  to  preach  in  denunciation  of  the  heresies 
for  which  the  martyr  was  about  to  suffer.  In  a 
voice  which  was  heard  all  over  the  square,  the 
friar    announced    his  text :    "  The    Spirit    speaketh 


58  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 

expressly  that  in  the  latter  times  some  shall  depart 
from  the  faith,  giving  heed  to  seducing  spirits  and 
doctrines  of  devils."  The  monks  were  delighted 
with  so  appropriate  a  text,  until  the  clear  voice  of 
the  martyr  Caturce  thundered  out,  "  You  have  read 
only  a  fragment  ;  read  on,  and  tell  us  what  these 
doctrines  of  devils  are."  The  friar  was  confounded. 
"  Read  on,"  cried  Caturce,  and  the  friar  read  on  : 
"  Forbidding  to  marry,  and  commanding  to  abstain 
from  meats  which  God  hath  created,  and  which  are  to 
be  received  with  thanksgiving  of  them  that  believe." 
The  friar  was  not  equal  to  the  occasion,  and,  strange 
as  it  seems,  while  the  discomfited  preacher  was 
unable  to  pursue  the  sermon  he  came  to  deliver,  the 
martyr  took  up  the  text,  and  preached  from  it  in  the 
very  presence  of  the  magistrates  and  other  so-called 
officers  of  justice  a  sermon  which  arrested  the 
attention  of  all  the  hearers,  although  it  did  not  save 
him,  for  he  was  burned  immediately  afterwards. 

Not  easy  nor  pleasant  preaching  this,  but  it  is 
an  illustration  of  that  strong  faith  which  makes 
words  effective  and  memorable  when  they  fall  from 
the  lips  of  men.  We  must  not  attempt  to  group 
together  the  instances  of  bold  and  fervent  spirits 
who  have  fearlessly  turned  their  stake  or  scaffold 
into  a  pulpit  or  a  whispering  gallery,  whence  they 
have  sent  forth  their  convictions  ;  only  the  principle 
of  convincing  speech  has  been  the  same,  i.e.,  "  We 
also  believe  and  therefore  speak "  ;  this  has  tipped 
the  tongue  with  sacred  fire,  and  has  been  the  point 
of  contact  between  the  soul  of  the  preacher  and  the 
audience,  causing  them  to  say,  "  Did  not  our  hearts 
burn  within  us  .?  " 


PREACHING  AT  THE   STAKE.  59 


One  memorable  instance  we  may  cite  from  the 
history  of  our  own  country.  It  was  at  that  moment 
when  the  Bible,  set  free  from  Rome  to  be  read  by 
the  common  people,  seemed  to  need  the  strong  and 
terrible  light  of  the  stake  for  men  to  read  it  by. 
The  traveller  in  England  knows  Oxford  well, 
England's  most  graceful  city.  The  reader  has, 
perhaps,  walked  down  its  queenly  High  Street,  its 
colleges  and  halls  black  and  hoar  with  the  winters 
of  ten  centuries.  He  has,  perhaps,  turned  into  St. 
Mary's  Street,  and  has  immediately  come  upon  a 
delicate  Gothic  monument.  Then  he  certainly 
paused  there  ;  the  very  dust  of  that  spot  is  vene- 
rable and  sacred.  Three  hundred  and  thirty  years 
since,  on  a  cold  rainy  November  morning,  in  the 
jail,  two  hallowed  and  venerable  men  were  called  up 
by  the  sheriff  to  die,  to  be  burned  to  death,  two 
bishops,  fathers  and  founders  of  the  English  Church. 
We  can  see  them  then  come  forth,  men  with  long 
flowing  white  beards,  one  eighty,  the  other  nearly 
seventy,  in  their  long  white  woollen  shrouds  ;  they 
step  along  between  the  sheriffs  to  that  place  where 
now  stands  that  Gothic  monument.  There  are  the 
two  stakes  ;  they  step  up  to  them.  Always  as  we 
have  stood  there  we  have  thought  we  could  hear  the 
click,  click,  click,  as  the  executioner  drove  in  the 
nails  to  the  staples  which  fastened  the  chain  round 
their  sacred  bodies ;  then  the  faggots  were  piled 
around  them  ;  then,  before  the  last  act  of  the  tragedy, 
there  must  be  a  sermon  to  the  two  great  culprits  ; 
and  a  friar,  one  Dr.  Smith,  was  appointed  to  preach, 
and  he  took  an  odd  text — "  Though  I  give  my 
body  to   be  burned,   and   have    not   charity,    I    am 


6o  TONGUES  OF  FIRE. 

nothing."  But  the  real  throne  of  eloquence  was 
not  the  friar's  pulpit,  but  the  stake  of  the  martyrs. 
Then  the  igniting  brand,  and  then  the  fangs  of 
flame  passing  to  and  fro  ;  but,  as  the  smoke  rose 
thick  around  them,  it  was  the  most  ancient  and 
venerable  of  the  fathers,  it  was  Latimer,  who  raised 
himself,  and  turning  to  his  brother  bishop  over  the 
sash  chain  which  bound  him,  said,  "  Be  of  good 
comfort.  Master  Ridley,  and  play  the  man.  We 
shall  this  day  light  such  a  candle,  by  God's  grace, 
xw  England,  as  I  trust  shall  never  be  put  out."  Only 
a  little  while,  and  then  he  and  his  brother  martyr  fell 
over  the  chain  into  the  flame  ;  soon  at  once  stake 
and  bodies  were  consumed ;  their  ashes  were  borne 
on  the  wind  or  trampled  in  the  street,  while  amazed 
yeomen  and  burgesses  walked  their  way  through  the 
streets,  wondering  if  God  were  dead  or  deaf;  but 
were  not  the  words  prophetic  .?  When  such  tongues 
of  fire  speak, — 

"  They  leave  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  them, — air,  earth,  and  skies. 
There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  them.     They  have  great  allies  ; 
Their  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind." 


CHAPTER    III. 

ST.   BERNARD:    THE   MEDIEVAL   TONGUE   OF 
FIRE. 

ST.  BERNARD  is  neither  by  name,  character, 
nor  influence  unknown  to  our  readers.  His 
name  is  a  very  prominent  one  in  the  church  history 
of  mediaeval  times — of  his  age  he  is  the  very 
foremost  man.  He  also  may  be  designated  as  "  the 
solitary  monk  that  shook  the  world."  The  form  of 
the  frail  man  rises — amidst  the  encircling  crowd  of 
emperors  and  kings  and  popes,  princes  and  priests, 
fighting  barons  and  crusaders,  the  archdisputants 
and  polemical  heretics  of  the  time — with  command- 
ing and  most  subduing  power :  he  influenced  all, 
he  ruled  all.  The  lone  hermit  touched  and  im- 
pressed himself  upon  all  the  affairs  of  his  time, 
always  with  a  powerful,  often  with  a  painful  dis- 
tinctness. He  moves  like  the  very  Elijah  of  Europe 
through  the  nations  of  those  times,  now  pitching 
his  voice  to  the  shrill  fervour  or  the  ensanguined 
furiousness  of  a  mad  apostle,  as  when  he  became 
the  prophet  of  the  Crusades,  now  sinking  it  to  the 
deep  and  tender  minor  tone  of  Christian  experiences, 
when,  amidst  his  band  of  monks,  he  breathes  out  his 
contemplative  sermons  on  The  Song  of  Sofigs, 
which    is    SolomorHs.     From    beneath    the    cloistral 


62  S2\    BERNARD. 


shades  of  Clairvaux  he  moulded  princes  to  his  will. 
His  was  the  voice  which  determined  a  distracted 
people  and  church  in  their  election  of  a  pope.  The 
spiritual  vivacity  of  the  man,  in  an  age  when 
nations  received  the  law  from  the  spiritual  kingdom, 
was  surpassingly  amazing.  That  lonely  man  might 
have  said,  as  a  far  different  chieftain  said  : — 

*'  Of  old  things  all  are  over-old  ; 
Of  good  things  none  are  good  enough. 
We'll  show  that  we  can  help  to  frame 
A  world  of  other  stuff. 

"  I,  too,  will  have  my  kings,  that  take 
From  me  the  sign  of  life  and  death  ; 
Kingdoms  shall  shift  about  like  clouds^ 
Obedient  to  my  breath." 

He  was  a  Burgundian.  His  father  was  a  feudal 
baron,  lord  of  the  castle  of  Fontaines,  near  Dijon,  by 
name  Tesselin.  When  he  became  the  successful 
abbot  of  European  fame,  and  cloisters  rose  in 
England  in  connection  with  his  order,  one  of  the 
most  glorious  and  graceful  in  Europe  sprang  to  his 
honour,  as  well  as  to  the  honour  of  the  Lord  ;  and 
the  ruins  of  our  Fontaines  Abbey  perpetuate  the 
memory  of  the  birthplace  of  the  great  Middle  Age 
monk  and  preacher.  Tesselin  was,  in  his  way,  a 
pious  fighting-man,  surnamed  Sorus,  which  meant 
red-headed,  a  kind  of  Christian  Rufus,  with  a  rude 
sense  of  justice  and  ill-conditioned  holiness  in  him. 
He  is  described  as  gentle,  although  brave  ;  modest, 
although  strong  ;  and  pious,  although  rich.  And  so 
also  the  mother  of  our  saint  was  an  earnest,  loving, 
devout  creature,  Alice,  or  Alith,  by  name  ;  a  pale, 
shadowy,   mournful   mother,  the  latter  years  of  her 


PARENTAGE.  h^ 


life  passed  in  austerities  and  devotions  ;  charitable 
after  the  fashion  of  the  times,  mother  of  seven 
children — six  sons  and  one  daughter — such  a  mother 
of  such  a  son  would,  of  course,  not  be  without 
monkish  eulogists  ;  and  she  has  ever  had  plenty 
who  have  covered  her  name  and  tomb  with  all 
legendary  and  traditional  honour.  The  Abbe  of 
Dijon  requested  her  body  for  the  church  of  the 
blessed  martyr  Benignus.  There  she  was  buried. 
She  was  wont  to  appear,  we  are  told,  after  death  to 
her  son  Bernard,  advising  him  to  continue  in  his 
good  work  when  he  avowed  himself  to  monkery,  in 
which  tradition  we  are  to  see  no  more  than  "  the 
"  robe  of  beauty  given  to  the  tomb  unseen  in  the 
sunlight,"  and  to  hear  only  "  the  words  of  the 
departed,"  which,  as  Mr.  Morison,  St.  Bernard's 
latest  and  best  English  biographer,  says,  "  acquire  a 
strange  reverberating  echo  from  the  vaults  wherein 
they  sleep." 

Bernard  was  the  child  of  these  two  good  people, 
his  mind  and  heart  not  less  than  his  body  ;  he 
studied  at  Chatillon.  They  were  stirring  times, 
the  times  of  his  early  boyhood  ;  they  were  the  days 
of  the  first  Crusade ;  there  was  a  blaze  of  wild 
enthusiasm  for  the  liberation  of  the  Holy  Land 
and  sepulchre  from  the  hands  of  the  infidels  ;  this 
wild  idea  was  *'  the  way  of  God,"  and  all  men 
were  embarking  upon  the  great  pilgrimage  of 
nations.  Lands  were  sold  for  the  love  of  Christ  ; 
barons  and  serfs  all  felt  the  animation  of  a 
common  tendency  and  hope.  "  Christ,"  says  one 
old  writer,  "  had  thundered  through  the  minds  of 
all."      Some   of  the  poor  harnessed    their   oxen    to 


64  ST.  BERNARD. 


their  farm-carts,  and  placed  therein  their  goods  and 
their  little  ones,  and  started  in  all  simplicity  for  the 
Holy  City.  Along  the  bad  roads  and  the  long 
journey,  even  from  province  to  province,  they  went, 
slowly  moving  and  creaking  over  marsh  and  moor. 
As  town  or  castle  rose  in  sight,  the  children  would 
ask,  "  Is  that  the  Jerusalem  we  are  going  to  } " 
One  of  the  chief  leaders  was  the  Duke  of  Burgundy. 
He  never  returned  alive  ;  and  he  desired  that  his 
remains  might  rest  among  the  poor  monks  of  the 
wretched  Abbey  of  Citeaux,  rather  than  in  any  of 
the  more  sumptuous  and  wealthy  abbeys  of  his 
dominions.  Citeaux  was  near  to  the  hearth  of 
Fontaines,  and  the  Duke  was  the  suzerain  of 
Tesselin.  The  good  Alith  would  print  the  lesson 
of  this  event  upon  the  mind  of  the  little  Bernard, 
then  nine  years  old — the  great  Crusader  going 
forth  with  his  warriors  in  full  panoply,  and  returning 
coffined  and  still  to  the  cemetery  at  Citeaux. 

It  was  a  strange  age.  Two  instincts  ruled  the 
world  :  an  instinct  for  fighting  and  an  instinct  for 
praying.  Men  passed  from  one  action  to  the  other 
with  ease  and  happiness  ;  nay,  at  last  did  not  pass 
from  one  to  the  other,  but  fought  and  prayed  in 
the  same  breath.  Thus  rose  the  Society  of  the 
Templars  ;  hence  the  stream  of  the  mad  Crusaders  ; 
for  ordinary  fighters,  the  usual  occupation  was 
besieging  a  castle  ;  everybody  was  slaying  or  being 
slain.  A  very  fierce  world  ;  and  thoughtful  and 
refined  natures  had  very  little  hesitation  in  quitting 
it.  Dukes  and  princes,  peasants  and  paupers,  all 
sought  the  haven  in  which  they  desired  to  say  their 
prayers,  and  lie  down  for  the  long  night  in  peace. 


CALLED  TO  HIS   WORK.  65 

**  And  such  a  haven  was  then  opened,  and  inviting  to  all. 
Between  the  clash  of  arms  and  the  din  of  wars  comes  a 
silvery  peal  of  convent  bells.  In  the  deep,  hushed  winter's 
night,  the  chorus-song  of  matins  is  heard  in  measured 
cadence,  and  the  last  chant  of  compline  goes  forth  as  the 
summer  sun  approaches  the  horizon.  There,  in  the  thick 
woods,  sleeps  the  monastery,  from  wi.ence  these  voices  and 
bell-tones  are  heard.  Calm  and  holy  it  looks,  casting  long 
rays  of  light  into  the  dark  air,  as  the  '  'lated  traveller ' 
hastens  to  its  welcome  shelter.  For  a  young  ardent  spirit, 
entering  the  world,  the  choice  practically  was  between  a  life 
of  strife,  violence,  wickedness,  of  ignoble  or  ferocious  joys 
and  sorrow,  or  of  sober,  self-denying  labour  and  solitude, 
with  a  solemn  strain  in  the  heart,  lightening  and  prospering 
the  work  of  the  hands."  * 

At  first  Bernard  heard,  of  course,  the  voices  of  the 
trumpets  and  the  clang  and  clash  of  arms,  but  he 
was  too  frail  for  a  knight.  Then,  in  the  time  of 
the  extraordinary  literary  awakenment  of  the  twelfth 
century,  philosophy  lifted  up  her  voice  and  called 
him.  The  great  doctor  of  Paris,  William  of 
Champeaux,  is  celebrated  throughout  Europe  ;  and, 
still  more  remarkable,  the  young  audacious  knight- 
errant  of  heresy,  Master  Peter  Abelard,  was  fascinat- 
ing crowds  of  thousands,  over  mountains,  and  seas, 
to  enjoy  the  privilege  of  hearing  him  lecture.  And 
the  spell  of  intellect  almost  called  Bernard  aside 
from  the  life  of  holiness  and  prayer  to  which  his 
mother's  example  and  conversation  had  incited  him. 
Then,  in  a  dubious  but  all  distracted  mood,  he  rode 

*  "  The  Life  and  Times  of  St.  Bernard,  Abbot  of  Clairvaux,  ' 
A.D.  1091 — 1153.  By  James  Cotter  Morison,  M.A.,  Lincoln 
College,  Oxford. 

5 


66  ST.   BERNARD. 


on  his  way  through  the  tangled  forest  and  the  bare 
bleak  moor,  and  presently  he  came  to  a  church  ;  the 
clouds  of  doubt  rolled  away  before  the  rising  sun  of 
faith,  and  upon  his  knees,  in  that  wayside  church, 
and  in  a  torrent  of  tears,  he  lifted  up  his  hands  to 
heaven,  and  poured  forth  his  heart  like  water  in 
the  presence  of  the  Lord.  That  was  the  hour  of 
his  conversion  ;  from  that  hour  his  determination  to 
enter  the  monastic  life  never  faltered. 

But  Bernard  would  not  enter  the  monastery 
alone.  The  instinct  was  strong  within  him  which 
leads  us  to  desire  the  conversion  of  other  souls 
immediately  after  the  conversion  of  our  own  ;  and 
he  at  once  displayed  that  commanding  personal 
ascendency,  that  overpowering  influence  of  spirit, 
which  hardly  met  with  a  defeat  during  his  long  life. 
His  uncle,  his  brothers,  Guido  and  Gerard,  both 
knights,  yielded  very  shortly  to  the  spell  of  his 
power.  Nay,  the  effect  of  his  preaching  was  such 
that  mothers  hid  their  sons,  and  wives  tlicir  husbands, 
and  companions  their  friends,  lest  they  should  be  led 
captive  by  the  persuasive  eloquence  of  the  youthful 
enthusiast.  At  last  he  had  gathered  round  him 
thirty  adherents  ;  with  them  he  retired  into  seclusion 
at  Chatillon,  where  for  the  space  of  six  months  they 
all  devoted  themselves  by  preparation  for  the  great 
change  they  were  to  undergo.  In  the  year  1113, 
Bernard,  being  then  twenty-two  years  old,  knocked 
at  the  gate,  and  disappeared  within  the  walls  of 
Citeaux.  It  was  a  severe  house,  of  all  religious 
houses  one  of  the  most  severe.  It  was  under  the 
rule  of  Stephen  Harding,  an  Englishman,  from 
Sherborne,  in  Dorsetshire.      Within  its  walls  he  was 


mS  AUSTERITIES.  67 


carrying  on  a  system  of  monastic  reform,  keeping 
St.  Benedict's  rule  most  literally,  not  conventionally 
and  with  large  allowances,  as  was  usual  in  the 
strictest  houses.  No,  but  eating  only  one  meal  a 
day  ;  and  they  had  risen  twelve  hours  from  their 
couches,  sung  psalms,  and  worked  in  the  fields, 
before  they  got  even  that,  never  tasting  fish,  meat, 
grease,  or  eggs,  and  milk  only  rarely,  their  dress 
consisting  only  of  three  garments,  all  of  the  coarsest 
wool,  their  church  austere  in  its  simplicity.  There 
was  little  sympathy  with  this  pleasant  monastic  life, 
and  a  fearful  epidemic  raging  through  the  cloisters 
seemed  likely  to  bring  the  dream  of  monastic  reform 
to  a  close,  when  Bernard  and  his  brethren  sought 
admittance  beneath  its  cheerless  shades. 

But  these  austerities,  and  others  we  must  not  stay 
to  particularize,  were  too  few  for  Bernard,  and  he 
determined  to  do  his  bast,  not  only  to  subdue  the 
desires  of  the  flesh  which  arise  through  the  senses, 
but  even  those  senses  themselves.  He  excluded 
himself  -from  all  communication  with  the  outer 
world  ;  time  given  to  sleep  he  regarded  as  lost  ; 
when  importunate  friends  came  to  converse  with 
him  he  heard  nothing,  he  stopped  his  ears  with 
little  wads  of  flax,  and  buried  his  head  deep  in 
the  cowl  ;  for  food  he  lost  all  desire,  and  the  little 
he  took  seemed  taken  rather  to  defer  death  than  to 
sustain  life  ;  he  betook  himself  also  to  hard  manual 
labour — digging,  hewing  wood,  and  carrying  it  on 
his  shoulders.  One  luxury  for  a  time  remained, 
the  desire  for  it  unextinguished  as  yet,  but  to  be 
also  banished  from  the  soul  by-and-by  ;  it  was  the 
love   of  nature.      He   lived   in   this   love  ;   to  him,  in 


68  ST.   BERNARD. 


his  first  monastic  days,  the  love  of  God  and  the 
love  of  nature  were  all ;  from  nature  to  the  Bible, 
from  the  Bible  to  nature  ;  the  beeches  and  the  oaks, 
the  woods  and  fields,  and  the  Scriptures — no  world 
of  thought  came  between  him  and  that  glorious 
phantasmagoria,  the  result  of  a  word  of  God,  and 
at  a  word  of  God,  at  last,  to  vanish  away  ;  only  a 
procession  of  burning  thoughts  swept  through  the 
soul,  raptures  of  ecstatic  love,  in  the  gloomy  forest, 
and  before  the  sailing  clouds,  and  the  pomp  of 
setting  suns.  No  world  of  causes,  and  effects,  and 
laws  obscured  or  aided  his  vision.  He  says  to  a 
friend  and  pupil, — 

"  Trust  to  one  who  has  had  experience.  You  will  find 
something  far  greater  in  the  woods  than  you  will  in  books. 
Stones  and  trees  will  teach  you  that  which  you  will  never 
learn  from  masters.  Think  you  not  you  can  suck  honey 
from  the  rock,  and  oil  from  the  flinty  rock  ?  Do  not  the 
mountains  drop  sweetness,  the  hills  run  with  milk  and 
honey,  and  the  valleys  stand  thick  with  corn?" 

We  have  spoken  of  the  surprise  created  by  the 
selection  of  Citeaux  as  the  solitude  to  which  Bernard 
consigned  himself,  with  his  thirty  companions. 
Great,  however,  must  have  been  the  joy  created  by 
their  arrival  in  that  decaying  monastery.  It  was 
the  turning-point  in  its  history.  Very  soon  it 
became  necessary  to  leave  the  spot  of  his  selection  ; 
and,  selected  by  the  Abbot  of  Citeaux,  he  became 
himself,  although  only  just  turned  four-and-twenty, 
the  head  of  a  new  community.  Stephen  Harding 
placed  a  cross  in  Bernard's  hands,  gave  him  twelve 
monks,  and  sent  the  young  Abbot  forth  to  choose 


VALLEY  OF  WORMWOOD.  69 


some  spot  for  a  new  religious  house  in  the  wilderness. 
He    and    his    companions    struck    away   northward, 
passed  up  by  the  source  of  the  Seine,  by  Chatillon,  a 
place  of  old  schoolday  associations,  till  he   reached 
a  place  called  Ferte,  equally  distant  between  Troyes 
and   Chaumont,  situated   on   the  river  Aube.      Four 
miles    beyond     La     Ferte,    they    came    to    a    deep 
valley,   thick,  umbrageous  forests   giving  a  character 
of  gloom  and  wildness.      It  was  called  the  Valley  of 
Wormwood,  a  name  surely  befitting  the  austerities 
we   have    associated    with    our   pilgrims.      Here    he 
laid  the  foundation  of  that  building  whose  name  is 
immortal    in    the    history    of    the     Church    and    of 
Europe — the  famous  Abbey  of  Clairvaux.      It  was 
a  singularly  unpretentious  building,  utterly  excluding 
from     the     mind     all     romantic     associations     with 
monastic    piles, — a    building    covered    by    a    single 
roof,  under  which  chapel,  dormitory,   and   refectory 
were    all    included,    miserable    windows,    artistically 
contrived    rather    to    exclude,    than    to  convey   the 
light.      The  monks'  beds   are  described  as  a  kind  of 
bin    of  wooden    planks,  long   and  wide  enough   for 
a   man   to   lie  down   in  ;    a   small   space   hewn    out 
with  an  axe  allowed   room  for  the  sleeper  to  get  in 
or  out,  and  the   inside  was  pleasantly  strewn   with 
chaff  or  dried  leaves;  these  below,  and  the  woodwork 
above,  are  the  mattress  and  the  bed-clothes   which 
furnish  to  our  imagination  an  idea  of  the  comforts 
f  the  home. 
In     truth,    all    about    the    establishment    marked 
its  extreme  poverty.      They  were  near  to  September 
when  the  rude  building  was  completed.       Autumn 
and  winter  were  approaching.      They  had  no  stores 


•JO  ST.  BERNARD. 


laid  in.  Their  food  during  the  summer  had  been 
a  compound  of  leaves  and  coarse  grain  ;  their  food 
during  the  winter  was  to  be  beechnuts  and 
roots.  The  austerities  of  Citeaux,  before  Bernard 
made  his  appearance,  had  been  severe  ;  but  those 
austerities,  which  to  him  were  the  necessary  con- 
ditions of  his  spiritual  life,  began  to  be  terrible  to 
his  twelve  monks.  Very  shortly  there  seem  to  have 
been  signs  of  mutiny.  Deaf  to  their  Abbot's 
entreaties,  they  talked  of  leaving  the  valley  of 
bitterness  and  returning  to  Citeaux.  At  this  period 
monkish  historians  tax  the  faith  of  readers  with 
the  traditions  of  miracles,  now  commencing,  to 
perform  a  part  in  the  history  of  Bernard,  and 
henceforth  never  wanting  to  that  history.  "  Wait 
and  ye  shall  see,  O  ye  of  little  faith,"  said  the 
Abbot ;  and  it  seems  they  did  see  ;  if  not  miracles, 
marvels  made  their  appearance.  But  when  are 
marvels  wanting  in  the  life  of  faith  .''  He  compelled 
the  obedience,  and,  eventually,  the  perfectly  docile 
trust  of  his  more  faithless  brethren,  and  finally 
presented  himself  before  his  diocesan  for  consecra- 
tion over  the,  as  yet,  quite  incipient  abbacy.  A 
precious  appearance  he  and  his  are  described  as 
presenting  in  the  palace  of  the  renowned  dialectician, 
William  of  Champeaux.  Before  the  experienced 
master  of  the  Paris  schools  came  the  threadbare, 
care  worn  youth,  with  attenuated  body  and  emaciated 
countenance.  That  was  a  day  in  which  splendour 
was  not  wanting  to  the  bishop's  palace  ;  and  we 
can  easily  figure  the  mirth  of  the  loungers  and 
idlers  as  the  grotesque  band  made  its  appearance. 
But  the  old  master  soon  detected  the  soul   in  the 


TOILS  AND  PAINS  REMITTED.  -ji 

ragged  body,  and  a  lifelong  friendship  was  formed 
between  the  two  from  that  hour,  which,  in  the 
life  of  Bernard,  presents  us  with  many  pleasant 
glimpses  and  particulars.  And  now  Bernard  fell 
ill,  which  also  is  not  surprising.  William  of  Cham- 
peaux,  when  he  found  his  new  friend  resolute 
against  the  relaxation  of  the  painful  austerities 
of  his  life,  started  for  Citcaux,  bishop  as  he  was, 
that  from  Stephen  Harding,  the  Abbot,  he  might 
receive  the  power  to  compel  the  remittance  of  those 
toils  and  pains  beneath  which  the  enfeebled  con- 
stitution was  failing  fast.  He  received  a  commission 
to  ^manage  Bernard  for  twelve  months  himself 
Hastening  back  to  Clairvaux,  he  found  its  Abbot 
now  obedient  and  yielding.  He  caused  a  small 
cottage  to  be  built  outside  the  monastery  walls, 
and  commanded  that  his  diet  should  no  longer  be 
regulated  by  monastic  rule.  All  this  was  irksome 
enough  to  the  spirit  of  Bernard  ;  but  it  is  easy 
to  see,  that  probably  but  for  this  timely  interference, 
that  magic  influence,  which  gave  to  Clairvaux  a  far 
more  than  European  fame,  and  moved  popes, 
emperors,  and  princes  at  its  touch,  had  never  been 
known.  He,  on  his  part,  seems  to  have  received 
his  lease  of  life  and  comfort  very  ungraciously  ;  and, 
when  William  of  St.  Thierry  visited  him  in  his  hut, 
and  asked  him  how  he  did,  a  satire,  not  very 
common  with  him  in  those  days,  broke  forth,  as 
he  replied,  "  Excellent  well.  I,  who  have  hitherto 
ruled  over  rational  beings,  by  a  great  judgment  of 
God,  am  given  over  to  obey  an  irrational  beast." 
Clairvaux,  meantime,  began  to  rear  its  loftier 
buildings.      William  of  St.  Thierry  breaks  forth  into 


ST.   BERNARD. 


rapturous  exclamations  at  once  over  the  beauty  of 
the  valley  and  the  consecrated  labours  which  were 
there  discovering  themselves  ;  a  still,  silent  solitude, 
yet  the  valley  soon  became  full  of  men.  The  sounds 
of  labour,  the  chants  of  the  brethren,  and  choral 
services  began  now  to  relieve  the  solitudes  of  the 
forests  and  the  gorges.  We  have  also  the  story 
of  Peter  de  Roya,  who  turned  aside  into  the  valley 
from  a  long  habituation,  as  he  tells  us,  "  with  festive 
banquets,  and  silver  salvers."  "  To  him  it  seemed," 
as  he  says,  "  that  he  had  found  the  building  whose 
foundation  is  in  the  holy  mountains — the  gates 
loved  of  the  Lord  more  than  the  dwellings,  of 
Jacob.  In  Clairvaux,"  says  he,  "  they  have  found 
Jacob's  ladder,  with  angels  upon  it,  some  descending, 
who  so  provide  for  their  bodies,  that  they  faint  not 
on  the  way :  and  others  ascending,  who  so  rule 
their  souls,  that  their  bodies  hereafter  may  be 
glorified  with  them."  He  continues  :  "  To  judge 
from  their  outward  appearance,  their  tools,  their 
disordered  clothes,  they  appear  a  race  of  fools, 
without  speech  or  sense ;  but  a  true  thought  in 
my  mind  tells  me  that  their  life  is  hid  with  Christ 
in  the  heavens.  Many  of  them,  I  hear,  are  bishops 
and  earls,  and  men  illustrious  through  their  birth 
and  knowledge.  I  see  Godfrey  of  Peronne,  Raynald 
of  Picardy,  William  of  St.  Omer,  Walter  of  Lisle  ; 
all  of  whom  I  knew  formerly  in  the  old  man, 
whereof  I  see  now  no  trace,  by  God's  favour."  All 
this  ended  in  his  going  to  Clairvaux. 

From  his  retirement  of  sickness  Bernard  came 
forth,  we  think,  healthier  in  mind  as  well  as  in 
body.      His  nature  seems  to  have  righted  itself,  as 


MONKISH  FARE.  -j^ 

far  as  it  ever  righted  itself  in  its  earthly  tabernacle  ; 
and,  in  the  course  of  a  year  or  two,  he  commenced 
that  course  of  marvellous  literary  labours,  infinite 
correspondences,  sermons,  extending  governments, 
and  travels,  which  alternate  his  name  in  our  minds, 
as  the  man  of  action  not  less  than  the  man  of 
contemplation.  Not  that  he  ever  became  tolerant 
or  tender  to  any  kinds  of  self-indulgence ;  and  his 
description  of  a  wolf  of  a  prior,  whose  tender 
regards  to  the  necessities  of  human  flesh  had  suc- 
ceeded in  fascinating  one  of  his  monks  from 
Clairvaux  to  Cluny,  is  sufficiently  humorous  :  hear 
him  :  "  Wine  and  the  like,  soup  and  fat  things, 
these  are  for  the  body,  not  for  the  mind  ;  not  for 
the  soul,  but  the  flesh  is  nourished  by  ragouts. 
Many  brethren  in  Egypt  serve  God  a  long  time 
without  eating  fish,  pepper,  ginger,  sage,  and 
cummin  ;  they  indeed  delight  the  palate-;  but 
think  you  youth  can  be  passed  in  safety  surrounded 
by  them  ? "  He  bids  those  who  fear  his  fasts,  and 
vigils,  and  manual  labours,  to  dwell  on  the  thought 
of  eternal  flames.  "  The  thought  of  outer  darkness 
will  banish  all  fear  of  solitude.  If  you  reflect  that 
account  is  to  be  kept  of  every  idle  word,  silence 
will  strike  you  as  less  appalling  ;  and  eternal 
weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth  will  make  a  feather- 
bed and  mattress  equally  indifferent.  Arise,  then, 
soldier  of  Christ."  But  the  soldier  did  not  arise  : 
the  morning  slumbers,  and  the  ginger  and  the 
pepper  were  too  much  for  the  beech-nuts  of 
Clairvaux. 

At    this    period    of   the    history    of    Bernard    we 
might  dwell  a  little    time,  did  space    permit,  upon 


74  ST.   BERNARD. 

the  miracles  which  form  a  portion  of  his  life ;  but 
we  cannot  dwell.  It  may  be  sufficient  to  remark 
that  it  was  an  a^^e  in  which  material  nature  was 
supposed  to  be  at  the  command  of  moral  goodness. 
Must  not  the  earthly  give  way  to  the  heavenly  1 
Must  not  Christ  be  the  conqueror  of  Satan  .''  One 
writer  tells  us  how  he  saw  a  knight  offer  thanks 
to  Bernard  for  having  cured  him  with  a  piece  of 
consecrated  bread.  There  are  plenty  of  stories  of 
the  diseases  which  fled  at  the  command  or  the 
blessing  of  Bernard.  When  he  came  to  the  dedi- 
cation of  the  church  of  Foigny,  it  happened  that 
an  incredible  number  of  flies  filled  the  place.  "  I 
excommunicate  them,"  said  the  saint.  Next  morn- 
ing they  were  all  found  dead,  they  covered  the 
pavement,  they  were  shovelled  out  with  spades, 
the  church  was  rid  of  them  ;  the  cursing  of  the 
Foigny  flies  passed  into  a  proverb.  Shall  we  laugh 
at  these  things  .'  Shall  we  laugh  at  the  story  that, 
when  his  attendants  were  unable  to  catch  his 
horse,  Bernard  said,  "  Let  us  pray  ;  "  and,  kneeling 
down,  they  were  not  through  the  Lord's  prayer 
when  the  horse  returned  and  stood  before  Bernard  } 
We  give  these  stories  in  their  crudity.  At  any 
rate,  they  are  significant  enough,  and  show  the 
estimation  in  which  Bernard  was  held  by  his 
cotemporaries.  And  we  must  remember,  in  looking 
at  the  matter,  that  our  talk  about  miracles  would 
have  availed  nothing  with  Bernard.  "  Laws  of 
nature  !  "  we  think  we  hear  him  exclaim  ;  "  what  do 
I  know  of  the  laws  of  nature  t  Miracle  is  the  law 
of  God."  Miracles,  and  apparitions,  and  Divine 
and    demoniac    interferences    with    human     affairs  ! 


MEDIEVAL  PARIS.  75 


a  man  of  the  twelfth  century— and  especially  such 
a  man  as  Bernard— would  have  as  soon  parted  with 
his  existence  as  he  would  have  parted  with  his 
belief  in  these.  Moreover,  there  was  evidently 
that  in  the  psychological  character  of  Bernard 
which  would  easily  hang  round  him  the  apparition 
of  miracles  to  ordinary  minds  :  his  whole  life  was 
a  kind  of  miracle,  resolvable  by  us  in  a  measure  ; 
and,  if  our  readers  are  disposed  still  to  smile,  we 
must  remind  them  that  miracles  belong  to  that  time 
as  much  as  the  feudal  castle,  vast  monastic  piles, 
and  the  baron's  chain   mail. 

At   the   age    of  thirty-four   Bernard    travelled    to 
fortify   the   population    of  his   young  community. 

He  visited  Paris,  "  a  little,  thronged,  dirty,  ill-payed 
city  : "  one  smiles  at  the  unrecognisable  description. 
The   schools   of   Paris    were   the   marvel   of  Europe. 
Bernard  was  requested  to  enter  them,  and  lecture  in 
them.      He   did   not  enter   the  schools,  but  he  was 
glad  enough  to  seize  the  opportunity  for  dilating  on 
the   true    philosophy,— contempt  for  the  world   and 
voluntary  poverty  for  Christ's  sake.      His  visit,  while 
not   entirely    unsuccessful,    does    not  seem    to   have 
greatly  strengthened  Clairvaux.      He  gladly  returned 
to  his  peaceful  seclusion,  from  which,  indeed,  he  was 
never    a    willing    wanderer;     and    there    arc    many 
passages  of  his  life  which  give  us  glimpses  of  serene 
and  thoughtful  days,  amidst  the  turmoil  and  barbar- 
ism of  that  wild,  ungovernable  time.      In  his  way,  we 
are  pleased  also  to  see  that   bt.  Bernard  set  himself 
heartily   to    the    reformation    of    burglarious   barons, 
bishops  who  thought  too  much  of  their  temporalities, 
and  abbots  who  gave  m.ore  attention  to  their  revenues 


76  ST.  BERNARD. 


than  to  souls.  He  set  himself,  as  the  representative 
of  the  Church,  to  do  battle  with  the  exuberant 
animalism  of  the  age — to  tame  it  and  drill  it  ;  and 
it  is  truly  amusing,  in  this  connection,  to  notice  how, 
again  and  again,  the  question  of  cookery  forces  itself 
upon  our  saint's  attention.  Some  passages,  in  which 
he  condemns  the  luxury  of  the  Cluniacs,  are  scarcely 
less  curious  than  they  are  humorous.  A  Cluniac 
dinner  must  have  been  a  tolerably  inviting  repast. 
"  Who,"  says  our  saint,  "  could  say,  to  speak  of 
nothing  else,  in  how  many  forms  eggs  are  cooked  and 
worked  up  }  with  what  care  they  are  turned  in  and 
out,  made  hard  or  soft,  or  chopped  fine  ;  now  fried, 
now  roasted,  now  stuffed  :  now  they  are  served 
mixed  with  other  things,  now  by  themselves  :  even 
the  external  appearance  of  the  dishes  is  such  that 
the  eye,  as  well  as  the  taste,  is  charmed  ;  and  when 
even  the  stomach  complains  that  it  is  full,  curiosity 
is  still  alive.  So  also,"  he  continues,  "  what  shall  I 
say  about  water-drinking,  when  even  wine-and-vvater 
is  despised  .''  We  all  of  us,  it  appears,  directly  we 
become  monV's  are  afflicted  with  weak  stomachs,  and 
the  important  advice  of  the  apostle  to  use  wine,  we, 
in  a  praiseworthy  manner,  endeavour  to  follow,  but 
for  some  unexplained  reason,  the  condition  of  a  little 
is  usually  omitted."  In  the  same  manner  he  de- 
nounces the  monkish  lust  of  dress.  "  You  say 
religion  is  in  the  heart ;  true,  but  when  you  are 
about  to  buy  a  cowl  you  rush  over  to  the  towns, 
visit  the  markets,  examine  the  fairs,  dive  into  the 
houses  of  the  merchants,  turn  over  all  their  goods, 
undo  their  bundles  of  cloth,  feel  it  with  your  fingers, 
hold  it  to  your  eyes  or  to  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  if 


THE   VANITY  OF  RICH  CHURCHES.  j-j 

anything  coarse  or  faded  appears  you  reject  it  ;  but 
if  you  are  pleased  with  any  object  of  unusual  beauty 
or  brightness,  you  buy  it,  whatever  the  price.  Does 
this  come  from  your  heart,  or  your  simplicity  ?  I 
wonder  that  our  abbots  allow  these  things,  unless  it 
arise  from  the  fact,  that  no  one  is  apt  to  blame  any 
error  with  confidence,  if  he  cannot  trust  to  his  own 
freedom  from  the  same."  Nor  these  vices  alone. 
He  speaks  of  others  whose  vice  was  a  mock  humility: 
"  Again,  with  our  bellies  full  of  beans,  and  our  minds 
of  pride,  we  condemn  those  who  are  full  of  meat  ;  as 
if  it  were  not  better  to  eat  a  little  fat  on  occasion, 
than  to  be  gorged,  even  to  belching,  with  windy 
vegetables."  He  looked  with  little  more  favour  upon 
the  rich  architecture,  now  beginning  to  adorn  the 
churches  of  Europe,  than  the  sumptuary  condition  of 
the  priests.  "  The  church's  walls  are  resplendent," 
exclaims    he,  "  but    the   poor  are   not   there." 

"  In  the  churches  are  suspended,  not  coronce^  but  wheels 
studded  with  gems,  and  surrounded  by  lights,  which  are 
scarcely  brighter  than  the  precious  stones  which  are  near 
them.  Instead  of  candlesticks,  we  behold  great  trees  of 
brass,  fashioned  with  wonderful  skill,  and  glittering  as  much 
through  their  jewels  as  through  their  own  Hghts.  \Vhat  do 
you  suppose  is  the  object  of  all  this  ?  The  repentance  of 
the  contrite,  or  the  admiration  of  the  gazers  ?  O  vanity  of 
vanities!  But  not  more  vain  than  foolish.  Tlie  church's 
walls  are  resplendent,  but  the  poor  are  not  there.  .  .  . 
The  curious  find  wherewith  to  amuse  themselves — the 
wretched  find  no  stay  for  them  in  their  misery.  Why,  at 
least,  do  we  not  revenge  the  images  of  the  saints,  with 
which  the  very  pavement  we  walk  on  is  covered  ?  Often 
an  angel's  mouth  is  spit  into,  and  the  face  of  some  saint 


78  ST.  BERNARD. 


trodden  on  by  the  passers-by.  .  .  .  But  if  we  cannot  do 
without  the  images,  why  can  we  not  spare  the  brilliint 
colours?  What  has  all  this  to  do  with  monks,  with 
professors  of  poverty,  with  men  of  spiritual  minds? 

"  Again,  in  the  cloisters,  what  is  the  meanmg  of  those 
ridiculous  monsters,  of  that  deformed  beauty,  that  beautiful 
deformity,  before  the  very  eyes  of  the  brethren  when  reading  ? 
What  are  disgusting  monkeys  there  for,  or  ferocious  lions, 
or  horrible  centaurs,  or  spotted  tigers,  or  fighting  soldiers, 
or  huntsmen  sounding  the  bugle  ?  You  may  see  there  one 
head  with  many  bodies,  or  one  body  with  numerous  heads. 
Here  is  a  quadruped  with  a  serpent's  tail ;  there  is  a  fish 
with  a  beast's  head ;  there  a  creature,  in  front  a  horse, 
behind  a  goat ;  another  has  horns  at  one  end,  and  a  horse's 
tail  at  the  other.  In  fact,  such  an  endless  variety  of  forms 
appear  everywhere,  that  it  is  more  pleasant  to  read  in  the 
stonework  than  in  books,  and  to  spend  the  day  in  admiring 
these  oddities  than  in  meditating  on  the  law  of  God.  Good 
God  !  if  we  are  not  ashamed  of  these  absurdities,  why  do  we 
not  grieve  at  the  cost  of  them  ?  " 

Thus,  finally,  perhaps,  Bernard  would  not  be  far 
from  a  disposition  to  pronounce  the  objurgation  of 
Thomas  Carlyle,  "  Let  the  devil  fly  away  with  fine 
arts."  "  I  never  met  with  a  man,"  says  Ruskin, 
*'  whose  mind  was  fully  set  upon  the  world  to  come, 
perfect  and  right  before  God,  who  cared  about  art  at 
all."  We  are  disposed  to  commend  the  consideration 
of  these  sundry  texts  from  all  these  worthies  to  those 
who  find  a  strong  disposition  to  sneer  at  Puritanic 
tabernacles  and  conventicles,  on  the  one  hand;  or  who 
are  disposed  to  estimate  the  worth  of  our  modern 
Nonconformity  by  its  aesthetic  developments,  on  the 
other. 

As  Bernard  verged  towards  his  fortieth  year,  the 


SAINTLY  BLOODTHIRSTINESS.  79 

period  of  his  comparative  retirement  and  rest  drew 
to  a  close.  He  attended  the  Council  of  Troyes — 
that  celebrated  council,  famous  for  the  part  it  took 
in  founding  the  order  of  the  Knights  Templars,  In 
this  order  those  two  grand  instincts  of  mediaeval 
times  to  which  we  have  already  referred — the  fight- 
ing instinct  and  the  praying  instinct — became  dis- 
tinctly one.  Bernard's  exhortation  to  the  Knights 
of  the  Temple  is  very  characteristic  of  the  times 
and  of  himself,  although  issued  some  three  or  four 
years  later.  He  contrasts  the  secular  with  the 
monastic  warfare  in  the  following  extraordinary 
words,  curiously  remarkable  for  their  saintly  blood- 
thirstiness. 

"  You  always  run  a  risk,  you  worldly  soldier,  of  either 
killing  your  adversary's  body,  and  your  own  soul  in  conse- 
quence, or  of  being  killed  yourself  both  body  and  soul.  If, 
while  wishing  to  kill  another  you  are  killed  yourself,  you 
die  a  homicide.  If  you  vanquish  and  kill  your  enemy,  you 
live  a  homicide.  But  what  an  astounding  error,  what  mad- 
ness is  it,  O  Knights,  to  fight  at  such  cost  and  trouble  for 
no  wages  except  those  of  death  or  sin  !  You  deck  out 
your  horses  with  silken  trappings  ;  you  wear  flaunting  cloaks 
over  your  steel  breastplates ;  you  paint  your  shields,  your 
spears,  and  your  saddles  ;  your  spurs  and  bridles  shine  with 
gold,  and  silver,  and  gems ;  and  in  this  gay  pomp,  with  an 
amazing  and  incredible  madness,  you  rush  upon  death. 
Have  you  not  found  from  experience  that  these  things  are 
especially  needed  by  a  soldier,  viz.,  that  he  be  bold  yet 
vigi'ant  as  regards  his  own  safety,  quick  in  his  movements, 
and  prompt  to  strike  ?  You,  on  the  contrary,  cultivate  long 
hair,  which  gets  in  your  eyes ;  your  feet  are  entangled  in  the 
folds  of  your  flowing  robes  ;  your  delicate  hands  are  buried 
in  your  ample  and  spreading  sleeves.      In  addition  to  all 


8o  ST.  BERNARD. 


this,  your  reasons  for  fighting  are  light  and  frivolous,  viz., 
the  impulses  of  an  irrational  anger,  or  a  desire  of  vain  glory, 
or  the  wish  to  obtain  some  earthly  possession.  Certainly, 
for  such  causes  as  these  it  is  not  safe  either  to  slay  or  to 
be  slain. 

"  But  Christ's  soldiers  can  fight  in  safety  the  battles  of 
their  Lord  ;  fearing  no  sin  from  killing  an  enemy  ;  dreading 
no  danger  from  their  own  death.  Seeing  that  for  Christ's 
sake  death  must  be  suffered  or  inflicted,  it  brings  with  it  no 
sin,  but  rather  earns  much  glory.  In  the  one  case  Christ 
is  benefited,  in  the  other  Christ  is  gained, — Christ,  who 
willingly  accepts  an  enemy's  death  for  revenge,  and  more 
willingly  still  grants  Himself  to  the  soldier  for  consolation. 
Christ's  soldier  can  securely  kill — can  more  securely  die  : 
when  he  dies,  it  profits  him  ;  wlien  he  slays  it  profits  Christ. 
Not  without  just  cause  is  he  girded  with  a  sword.  When 
he  kills  a  malefactor,  he  is  not  a  slayer  of  men,  but  a  slayer 
of  evil,  and  plainly  an  avenger  of  Christ  against  those  who 
do  amiss.  But,  when  he  is  killed,  he  has  not  perished,  he 
has  reached  his  goal.  The  Christian  exults  in  the  death  of 
a  pagan  because  Christ  is  glorified.  In  the  death  of  the 
Christian  the  King's  bountifulness  is  shown  when  the  sol- 
dier is  led  forth  to  his  reward.  The  just  will  rejoice  over 
the  first  when  he  sees  the  punishment  of  the  wicked.  Of 
the  latter  men  will  say,  '  Verily  there  is  a  reward  for  the 
righteous,  doubtless  there  is  a  God  that  judgeth  the  earth.^  " 

The  following  remarkable  words,  pervaded  surely 
by  a  droll  grim  humour,  express  his  feelings  at  the 
departure  of  the  troops  of  crusaders  for  the  Holy 
Land  : — 

"  But  the  most  joyful  and  salutary  result  to  be  perceived 
is,  that  in  such  a  multitude  of  men  who  flock  to  the  East 
there  are  few  besides  scoundrels,  vagabonds,  thieves,  mur- 
derers, perjurers,  and  adulterers,  from  whose  emigration  a 


RIVAL  POPES.  8i 


double  good  is  observed  to  flow,  the  cause  of  a  twofold  joy. 
Indeed  they  give  as  much  delight  to  those  whom  they 
leave  as  to  those  whom  they  go  to  assist.  Both  rejoice, — 
those  whom  they  defend  and  those  whom  they  no  longer 
oppress.  Egypt  is  glad  at  their  departure ;  yet  Mount 
Zion  and  the  daughters  of  Judah  shall  be  joyful  over  the 
succour  they  will  bring ;  the  one  for  losing  its  most  cruel 
spoilers,  the  other  at  receiving  its  most  faithful  de 
fenders." 

The  most  distinct  turning  point  in  the  career  of 
St.  Bernard  was,  perhaps,  the  death  of  the  Pope 
Honorius  II.  on  February  14th,  1 130.  His  death  led 
to  a  double  election  to  the  papacy.  On  the  same 
evening  on  which  the  Pope  died,  Cardinal  Gregory, 
of  St.  Angelo,  was  proclaimed  supreme  Pontiff 
under  the  name  of  Innocent  II.,  while  another  party 
went  through  the  form  of  election  with  their  Pope, 
dressed  him  in  pontificals,  and  declared  that  Peter 
Leonis  was  the  vicar  of  Christ,  under  the  title  of 
Anacletus  II.  Innocent  fled  from  Rome  to  France, 
trusting  in  the  allegiance  of  the  nations  of  Northern 
Europe  ;  and  although  Anacletus  had  been  a  monk 
of  Cluny,  that  monastery  produced  a  strong  presump- 
tion in  favour  of  Innocent  by  the  recognition  of  his 
right.  But  the  French  bishops  had  not  decided, 
although  it  became  necessary  immediately  to  decide. 
A  council  was  convened  at  Etampes  for  the  purpose 
of  discussing  the  claims  of  the  hostile  Popes.  To 
this  council  Bernard  was  very  specially  invited  by 
the  king  and  the  chief  bishops.  He  confessed  after- 
wards that  he  went  with  much  fear  and  trembling  ; 
nor  are  we  surprised  that  on  the  road  his  eyes  were 
saluted  by  a   vision  in  which  he  saw  a  large  church, 

6 


82  ST.   BERNARD. 


with  all  the  people  harmoniously  praising  God. 
This  raised  his  spirits. 

We  can  scarcely  conceive  the  importance  of  such 
a  schism  as  that  which  the  council  was  called  in 
some  way  to  heal.  Fasting  and  prayer  preceded  its 
deliberations,  and  no  clearer  impression  can  be  con- 
veyed of  the  immense  fame  and  influence  Bernard 
had  acquired,  than  in  the  fact  that  the  council 
unanimously  agreed,  first,  that  this  business,  which 
concerned  God,  should  be  entrusted  to  the  man  of 
God,  and  that  his  judgment  should  decide  the 
assembly.  We  can  scarcely  think  that  this  assembly 
was  in  great  ignorance  as  to  the  verdict  he  was 
likely  to  pronounce  ;  nor  can  we  doubt  that  this, 
too,  was  one  of  the  occasions  when  that  felicitous 
and  marvellous  swell  and  sweep  of  all-subduing 
eloquence,  which  mighty  councils  and  vast  convoca- 
tions of  princes,  barons,  and  scholars  were  destined 
yet  many  times  to  prove,  exhibited  much  of  its 
matchlessness.  .  He  rose  obedient  to  the  call  and 
examined  the  whole  question  ;  the  causes  which  led 
to  the  double  election,  the  life  and  character  of  the 
first  elected  ;  as  he  advanced,  it  is  said,  the  Holy 
Ghost  seemed  to  speak  through  him.  He  pro- 
nounced Innocent,  without  hesitation  or  reserve,  the 
legitimate  Pope,  and  the  only  one  they  could  accept 
as  such,  and,  amidst  acclamations  and  praises,  and 
vows  of  obedience  to  Innocent,  the  council  broke  up. 
Henceforth,  the  way  of  Bernard  lay  much  among  the 
higher  principalities  and  powers  of  Europe. 

Immediately  after  the  council  it  is  interesting  to 
find  him  meeting,  face  to  face,  with  our  own  Henry  I., 
the    wisest   soldier   of    his    age,   and    the   mightiest 


BERNARD  AND  HENRY  I.  83 

monk  of  the  cloisters  of  Christendom  ;  old  knight 
and  young  priest  ;  and  the  young  priest  conquered 
the  old  knight,  for  Henry  had  been  indisposed  to 
acknowledge  Innocent.  The  enthusiast  convinced 
the  man  of  the  world.  "  Are  you  afraid,"  said  he, 
"of  incurring  sin  if  you  acknowledge  Innocent? 
think  how  to  answer  your  other  sins  before  God, 
and  I  will  answer  and  take  account  of  this  one." 
And  Henry  yielded  to  the  quaint  and  not  very 
polite  reasoning.  It  is  not  wonderful  that  Innocent 
should  regard  Bernard  as  a  necessary  friend  and 
adviser.  Events,  perhaps,  subsequently  prove  that 
an  Elijah-like  kind  of  character  was  not  the  most 
comfortable  companion  for  the  Vatican  ;  but  for 
the  present  he  was  necessary  to  the  Pope.  They 
met  at  Morigny  near  Etampes  :  they  met  also 
another  man  whom  we  shall  presently  see  much 
more  distinctly,  who  was  one  of  the  guests  that 
night  with  the  Abbot  of  Clairvaux  at  Morigny — 
Master  Peter  Abelard.  Very  shortly  after  this. 
Innocent,  the  early  days  of  whose  papacy  were 
anything  but  tranquil,  had  to  receive  the  compara- 
tive hostilities  of  the  Emperor  Lotharius  at  Liege. 
Once  more  Bernard  came  to  the  rescue.  He  boldly 
faced  Lotharius,  smoothed  matters  of  difference 
between  papal  and  imperial  claims,  persuaded  the 
Emperor  to  acquiesce  in  the  claims  of  Innocent  ; 
finally,  urged  by  Bernard,  the  Emperor  went  on 
foot  through  the  crowd  towards  the  Pope  on  his 
white  palfrey,  and  when  Innocent  descended  from 
his  horse,  the  Emperor  was  there  to  assist  him  ;  and 
thus,  before  all  men,  in  that  age  of  forms  and 
ceremonies,    he    proclaimed    his  submission.      There 


ST.   BERNARD. 


was  a  strength  of  texture  in  the  stuff  of  which  these 
churchmen  in  those  days  were  made,  yet  their 
temporalities  had  not  reached  the  dangerous  ambi- 
tiousness  of  more  recent  times,  and  we  find  Innocent 
spent  some  time  at  Clairvaux  on  his  way  homewards. 
He,  perhaps,  was  surprised  at  the  marvellous  austerity, 
the  self-restraint  and  solemn  silence  of  the  plain 
unornamented  church,  and  the  bare  walls  of  the 
monastery.  The  monks  received  the  brilliant  caval- 
cade with  closed  lids  ;  they  were  seen  of  all  and  saw 
no  one  ;  nor  do  they  seem  to  have  treated  the  Pope 
much' better  than  they  treated  themselves  :  we  read 
that  if  a  stray  fish  could  be  caught  it  was  reserved 
for  the  table  of  the   Pope  alone. 

We  must  pass  by  the  circumstances  of  the  Council 
of  Rheims  ;  and  Bernard,  after  this  powerful  inter- 
course with  the  affairs  and  destinies  of  Europe, 
returned  to  the  shades  of  his  own  beautiful  vale — 
returned  to  leisure,  rest,  reflection,  and  solitude. 
Fifteen  years  had  passed  away  since  the  grotesque 
foundation  had  been  laid  of  the  now  famous  monas- 
tery. From  his  obscurity  he  had  emerged  to  place 
the  tiara  on  the  head  of  the  chief  of  Christendom  ; 
but  he  was  regarded  himself  as  the  acknowledged 
chief  of  the  most  active  minds  of  Europe  and  of  the 
age.  Clairvaux  was  growing  outwardly  and  inwardly. 
Houses  connected  with  it  were  rising  in  many  parts 
of  France  ;  and  especially  through  the  broad,  un- 
broken solitudes  of  Yorkshire,  where  still,  two  of 
the  loveliest  ruins — Riveaux  and  Fontaines — keep 
the  memory  of  Bernard  alive,  and  relate  the  mind 
of  the  visitor  to  the  crumbling  wall.  But  Clairvaux 
itself  was  expanding ;  it  was  too  small.      Numbers 


MEDIAEVAL   SOCIETY.  85 


were  coming-,  and  the  existing  site  was  quite  in- 
sufficient for  the  necessities  of  the  order — insufficient 
for  the  monks,  especially  for  the  visitors.  Soon  a 
nobler  structure  arose.  Large  grants  of  land  were 
easily  obtained,  and  every  needful  supply  for  the 
erection  lavishly  poured  in.  Still  it  was  a  little 
haven  of  shelter  in  the  midst  of  a  stormy  sea.  A 
strange  and  motley  population,  we  know,  assembled 
within  those  walls.  Rough,  strong,  mediaeval  knights, 
men  of  appetites  and  passions,  who  had  spent  their 
days  in  intense  animalism  and  blood-shedding,  felt 
a  spirit  touch  their  hearts  as  they  approached  that 
place,  or  as  its  tidings  approached  them.  They 
came  in  the  repentance  of  sackcloth  and  in  strange 
agonies  of  soul,  bent  their  stiff,  iron-clad  knees 
before  the  altar  and  \x\  the  cloister.  We  read  of 
some,  their  faces  on  the  grass,  foaming  at  the  mouth. 
To  this  succeeded  a  period  of  peace  ;  they  entered 
the  narrow  pathway  for  life  :  a  pathway  now  skirted 
by  the  gates  of  hell,  now  rising  to  the  heights  of 
heaven. 

And  is  it  not  beautiful  to  think  of  Bernard 
returning  to  these  his  brethren,  and  his  children, 
from  those  interviews  we  have  seen  him  holding 
with  the  statesmen  of  his  age  ;  and  in  that  same 
year,  11 35,  then  aged  forty-four,  commencing  to 
this  congregation  of  miscellaneous  hearts — some 
subdued  and  hushed  to  a  peace  deeper  than  that 
of  woods,  and  clouds,  and  hills,  a  peace  that  passeth 
all  understanding — and  some  wild,  and  fevered,  and 
beating  still — that  series  of  discourses  which  have 
been  called  matchless,  in  which  all  the  richness,  the 
symbolism,  the  mystery,  tenderness,   and   beauty  of 


86  ST.  BERNARD. 


the  Ancient  Church  were  pressed  out — his  sermons 
on  the  Song  of  Solomon  ?  By  these  we  suppose  the 
name  of  Bernard  will  ever  be  most  affectionately 
immortalized.  They  form  one  of  the  richest  rose 
windows  of  the  Mediaeval  Church.  Let  us  read 
them  as  they  should  be  read  ;  world-wearied  and 
wasted,  but  sighing  after  peace.  Let  us  think  of 
ourselves  as  listening  to  them  in  those  still,  cool 
aisles,  sometimes  while  the  sun  is  climbing  in  the 
early  morning  over  the  forest  trees  and  hills,  and 
sometimes  in  what  seems  the  more  sweet  and  suit- 
able hour  of  meditative  twilight.  In  reading,  it  is 
imperatively  necessary  to  dismiss  from  the  mind  all 
the  refining  casuistries  of  modern  criticism  ;  but 
read  by  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  Book,  and  with  a 
transference  of  soul  to  the  time,  the  place,  the 
auditors,  and  preacher,  there  is  something  magical 
and  sweet  in  their  deep  experiences.  The  preacher 
himself  had  been  a  man  to  whom  life  had  been  no 
child's  play,  who  had  thought  of  all  the  burden  of 
the  weary  and  intolerable  world  ;  perhaps  quite  as 
much  as  any  who  suppose  they  have  suffered  more 
in  this  da}^  of  more  fastidious  tastes,  sometimes 
mistaken  for  more  acute  sensibilities  ;  but  he  had 
passed  through  his  novitiate,  and  had  reached  the 
peace  spoken  so  deeply  in  evory  syllable  of  those 
discourses.  There  came  sliding  in  the  old  monk, 
his  mortifications  almost  done ;  there  the  young 
beginner,  scarcely  yet  habituated  to  a  life  so  severe  ; 
there  the  possessor  of  broad  lands,  relinquished  now 
for  Christ's  sake ;  labourers  from  the  hot  fields ; 
or,  rising  from  the  night's  vigils,  they  gathered  round 
he  man    whose  words  and  conversation  they  verily 


HIS  DISCOURSES.  87 

believed  to  be  of  another  world.  We  must  let  the 
reader  see  something  of  these  discourses,  so  long 
treasured  in  the  scriptorium  of  the  Church,  that  he 
may  estimate  their  strength  and  beauty. 

GOD   ALL   IN   ALL. 

"  But  who  can  grasp  the  magnitude  of  delight  compre- 
hended in  that  short  word  ?  God  will  be  all  in  all.  Not  to 
speak  of  the  body,  I  perceive  three  things  in  the  soul — 
reason,  will,  memory ;  and  these  three  make  up  the  soul. 
How  much  each  of  these  in  this  present  world  lacks  of 
completion  and  perfectness,  is  felt  by  every  one  who  walketh 
in  the  Spirit.  Wherefore  is  this,  except  because  God  is  not 
yet  all  in  all?  Therefore  it  is  that  our  reason  falters  in 
judgment,  that  our  will  is  feeble  and  distracted,  that  our 
memory  confounds  us  by  its  forgetfulness.  We  are  subjected 
unwillingly  to  this,  threefold  weakness,  but  hope  abides. 
For  He  who  fills  with  good  things  the  desires  of  the  soul, 
He  Himself  will  be  to  the  reason  the  fulness  of  light ;  to  the 
will,  the  abundance  of  peace ;  to  the  memory,  the  unbroken 
smoothness  of  eternity.  O  truth  !  O  charity  !  O  eternity  ; 
O  blessed  and  blessing  Trinity  !  to  thee  my  miserable  trinity 
miserably  groans,  while  it  is  in  exile  from  thee.  Departing 
from  thee,  in  what  errors,  griefs,  and  fears  is  it  involved! 
Alas  !  for  what  a  trinity  have  we  exchanged  Thee  away.  My 
heart  is  disturbed,  and  hence  my  grief;  my  strength  has 
forsaken  me,  and  hence  my  fear ;  the  light  of  my  eyes  is 
not  with  me,  and  hence  my  error.  O  trinity  of  my  soul ! 
what  a  changed  trinity  dost  thou  show  me  in  mine  exile  ? 

"  *  But  why  art  thou  cast  down,  O  my  soul !  and  why  art 
thou  disquieted  within  me  ?  Hope  thou  in  God,  for  I  shall 
yet  praise  Him,'  that  is,  when  error  shall  have  left  my  mind, 
sorrow  my  will,  fears  my  memory  j  and  serenity,  sweetness, 
and  eternal  peace  shall  have  come  in  their  stead.  The 
first  of  these  things  will  be  done  by  the  God  of  truth ;  the 


ST.  BERNARD. 


second,  by  the  God  of  charity ;  the  third,  by  the  God  of 
omnipotence  ;  that  God  may  be  all  in  all :  the  reason 
receiving  light  inextinguishable,  the  will  peace  imperturbable, 
the  memory  cleaving  to  a  fountain  which  shall  never  fail. 
You  may  judge  for  yourselves  whether  you  would  rightly 
assign  the  first  to  the  Son,  the  second  to  the  Holy  Ghost, 
and  the  last  to  the  Father ;  in  such  a  manner,  however, 
that  you  take  away  nothing  of  any  of  them,  either  from  the 
Father,  or  the  Son,  or  the  Holy  Ghost." 

Of  course,  a  deep  mystical  fervour  pervades  all 
these  sermons,  as  in  the  following  illustrative  extract 
on 

THE    FEET    OF   GOD. 

"But  I  must  not  pass  over  in  silence  those  spiritual  f?et 
of  God,  which,  in  the  first  place,  it  behoves  the  penitent 
to  kiss  in  a  spiritual  manner.  I  well  know  your  curiosity, 
which  does  not  willingly  allow  anything  obscure  to  pass  by 
it ;  nor  indeed  is  it  a  contemptible  thing  to  know  what  are 
those  feet  which  the  Scripture  so  frequently  mentions  in 
connection  with  God.  Sometimes  He  is  mentioned  as 
standing  on  them,  as  '  We  will  worship  in  the  place  where 
Thy  feet  have  stood  ; '  sometimes  as  walking,  as  '  I  will 
dwell  in  them  and  will  walk  in  them;'  sometimes  even  as 
running,  as  '  He  rejoiceth  as  a  strong  man  to  run  a  race.' 
If  it  appear  right  to  the  apostle  to  call  the  head  of  Christ 
God,  it  appears  to  me  as  not  unnatural  to  consider  His  feet 
as  representing  man — one  of  which  I  shall  name  mercy,  and 
the  other  judgment.  Those  two  words  are  known  to  you, 
and  the  Scripture  makes  mention  of  them  in  many  places. 

■''  On  these  two  feet,  fitly  moving  under  one  Divine  head, 
Christ,  born  of  a  woman,  He  who  was  invisible  under  the 
law,  then  made  Emmanuel  [God  with  us],  was  seen  on  the 
earth,  and  conversed  with  men.  Of  a  truth.  He  even  now 
passes  amongst  us,  relieving  and  healing  those  oppressed  by 


Ills  MYSTICAL  FERVOUR.  89 

the  devil ;  but  spiritually  and  invisibly.  With  these  feet,  I 
say,  He  walks  through  devout  minds,  incessantly  purifying 
and  searching  the  hearts  and  reins  of  the  faithful. 

"  Happy  is  that  mind  in  which  the  Lord  Jesus  has  placed 
both  of  these  feet.  You  may  recognise  that  mind  by  these 
two  signs,  which  it  must  necessarily  bear  as  the  marks  of  the 
Divine  footprints.  These  are  hope  and  fear.  The  first 
representing  the  image  of  judgment,  the  other  of  mercy. 
Justly  doth  the  Lord  take  pleasure  in  them  that  fear  Him,  in 
those  that  hope  in  His  mercy;  seeing  that  fear  is  the  begin 
ning  of  wisdom,  of  which  also  hope  is  the  increase,  and 
charity  the  consummation.  These  things  being  so,  in  this 
first  kiss  which  is  received  at  the  feet,  is  not  a  little  fruit ; 
only  be  careful  that  you  are  not  robbed  of  either  kiss.  If 
you  are  pricked  by  the  pain  of  sin  and  the  fear  of  judgment, 
you  have  pressed  your  lips  on  the  foot  of  judgment  and 
truth.  If  you  temper  this  fear  and  pain  by  regarding  the 
Divine  goodness,  and  by  the  hope  of  forgiveness,  you  may 
know  that  you  have  embraced  the  foot  of  mercy.  It  profits 
not  to  kiss  one  without  the  other,  because  the  dwelling  on 
judgment  only  casts  you  into  the  abyss  of  desperation, 
while  a  deceitful  trust  in  mercy  generates  the  worst  kind  of 
security. 

"  To  me  also,  wretched  one,  it  has  been  given  sometimes 
to  sit  beside  the  feet  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  and  with  all  devo- 
tion to  embrace  first  one,  then  the  other,  as  far  as  His  loving- 
kindness  condescended  to  permit  me.  But  if  ever,  forgetful 
of  mercy,  through  the  stings  of  conscience  I  have  dwelt  too 
long  on  the  thought  of  judgment,  at  once  cast  down  with 
incredible  fear  and  confusion,  enveloped  in  dark  shadows  of 
horror,  breathless  from  out  of  the  deeps  I  cried,  '  Who 
knoweth  the  power  of  Thy  wrath,  and  through  fear  of  Thee 
who  can  reckon  Thy  displeasure  ? '  if  it  has  chanced  that  I 
have  then  clung  too  closely  to  the  foot  of  mercy,  after  for- 
saking the  other,  such  carelessness  and  indifference  have 
come  upon  me,  that  my  prayers  have  grown  cold,  my  work 


90  ST.   BERNARD. 


has  been  neglected,  my  speech  has  been  less  cautious,  my 
laughter  more  ready,  and  the  whole  state  of  both  my  outer 
and  inner  man  less  firm.  Learning  then  from  experience, 
not  judgment  alone,  nor  mercy  alone,  but  mercy  and  judg- 
ment together,  will  I  sing  unto  Thee,  O  Lord  ;  I  will  never 
forget  those  justifications;  they  both  shall  be  my  song  in 
the  house  of  my  pilgrimage,  until  mercy  being  exalted 
above  judgment,  then  misery  shall  cease,  and  my  glory 
shall  sing  to  Thee  for  ever,  and  not  be  silent." 

These  were  the  discourses  which  charmed  multi- 
tudes to  the  cloisters  of  Clairvaux.  In  our  day  the 
practical  bias  of  life  has  so  eclipsed  and  outstripped 
the  speculative,  that  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how 
men  could  have  renounced  all  earthly  claims,  and 
every  earthly  emolument  and  position,  that  they 
might  have  the  opportunity  of  listening  to  such 
spiritual  raptures,  and  indulging  in  the  austere 
pleasures  of  the  spiritual  life.  It  is  quite  wonderful 
to  us  to  see  those  man-slaying  barons  drawn  into 
the  monastic  life,  often  as  by  a  force  they  could 
not  resist.  Strange  conversions  took  place.  They 
hovered  near  the  abbey,  half  knowing,  half  dreading 
their  fate  ;  retired  from  it  and  returned,  as  a  moth 
returns  to  the  candle,  with  increased  haste.  Mr. 
Morison  tells  the  stories  of  knights  riding  to  a 
tournament,  or  a  fair,  putting  up  over  night  at  the 
welcome  and  opportune  monastery,  and  spending  a 
quieter  night  than  was  usual  with  them.  And  the 
place,  and  solemnity,  and  order  of  the  monastery 
had  not  been  witnessed  in  vain.  The  psalm-singing, 
and  the  ceremonies,  and  the  music  of  the  frequent 
bells,  sent  emotions  of  awe  and  gentleness  into  the 
wearied    hearts    of   some   of   them.      Perhaps    they 


DEATH  OF  HIS  BROTHER.  91 

noticed  some  old  companion  in  arms,  who  was 
heard  last  shouting  in  the  shock  of  battle,  now, 
instead,  shouting  Gregorian  chants.  The  rude  bar- 
barian nature  is  touched,  and  stays,  or  returns,  to 
seek  peace  in  the  monastery  too.  There  was  peace 
in  the  monastery,  no  doubt  ;  but  those  hearts  which 
beat  so  vehemently  beneath  the  cuirass  and  the 
breastplate,  we  may  be  sure,  often  chafed  against 
the  new  rigours  of  the  cage.  The  peace,  however, 
which  others  felt — the  peace  which  so  profoundly 
breathes  along  the  sermons  on  the  Canticles,  was 
scarcely  the  possession  of  the  mighty  Abbot.  He 
experienced  rather  a  foretaste  of  its  pleasures,  and 
presented  it  in  his  mellifluous  eloquence.  He  was 
called  upon  in  his  vast  correspondence  to  interfere, 
not  only  in  the  care  of  all  the  churches,  but  persons 
of  distinction  throughout  Europe  seem  to  have 
thought  that  Bernard's  time,  attention,  and  influence 
should  be  at  their  disposal — bishops  "in  England, 
the  Queen  of  Jerusalem,  the  Kings  of  France,  and 
Italy,  and  Britain,  and  abbots  and  ecclesiastics 
without  number. 

And  his  brother  Gerard  fell  sick  and  died  ;  he 
was  one  of  the  brethren  of  Clairvaux.  The 
bereaved  Abbot  performed  for  him,  whom  he  had 
most  tenderly  loved,  the  funeral  service.  The 
brother  had  been  also  tenderly  and  deeply  loved 
by  his  brethren,  and  when  his  spirit  passed  away 
we  are  told  how  the  sobs  and  tears  of  others,  not 
less  than  those  of  Bernard,  expressed  their  grief. 
Gerard  was  his  second  brother.  He  had  been  a 
bold  knight,  and  had  taken  a  worldly  view  of  the 
Abbot's  early  enthusiasm.      "  Ah  !  "  said  the  young 


93  '  ST.  BERNARD. 


preacher,  "  tribulation  will  give  thee  understanding, 
and  thou  shalt  fear  greatly,  but  shalt  in  nowise 
perish."  There  was  a  prophecy  in  the  words : 
tribulation  came.  "  I  turn  monk,"  said  he,  "  a 
monk  of  Citeaux."  He  was  one  of  his  brother's 
first  converts.  It  was,  upon  the  day  of  his  death, 
one  of  Bernard's  duties  to  pursue  his  exposition  of 
the  Song  of  Songs,  and  at  the  appointed  time  he 
ascended  the  pulpit,  and  preached  that  funeral 
sermon,  which  is  also  one  of  the  most  famous  of  the 
whole  course,  from  Solomon's  Song  i.  5  :  "  As  the 
tents  of  Kedar,  as  the  curtains  of  Solomon  " — that 
is,  dark   as   is   the   first,  comely  as   is   the   last. 

And  we  quote  again  from  these  extraordinary 
expositions,  so  illustrative  of  the  pulpit  method  of 
the  cloisters  of  the  Middle  Ages — As  the  tents  of 
Kedar,  as  the  curtains  of  Solomon. 

"We  must  begin  from  this  point,  because  it  was  here 
that  the  preceding  sermon  was  brought  to  a  close.  You 
are  waiting  to  hear  what  these  words  mean,  and  how  they 
are  connected  with  the  previous  clause,  since  a  comparison 
is  made  between  them.  Perhaps  both  members  of  the 
comparison,  viz.,  *  As  the  tents  of  Kedar,  as  the  curtains  of 
Solomon,'  refer  only  to  the  first  words,  '  I  am  black.'  It 
may  be,  however,  that  the  simile  is  extended  to  both  clauses, 
and  each  is  compared  with  each.  The  former  sense  is  the 
more  simple,  the  latter  the  more  obscure.  Let  us  try  both, 
beginning  with  the  latter,  which  seems  the  more  difficult. 
There  is  no  difficulty,  however,  in  the  first  comparison,  '  I 
am  black  as  the  tents  of  Kedar,'  but  only  in  the  last.  For 
Kedar,  which  is  interpreted  to  mean  'darkness'  or  'gloom,' 
may  be  compared  with  blackness  justly  enough  ;  but  the 
curtains  of  Solomon  are  not  so  easily  likened  to  beauty. 


"AS  THE  TENTS  OF  KEDARr  93 

Moreover,  who  does  not  see  that  *  tents '  fit  harmoniously 
with  the  comparison  ?  For  what  is  the  meaning  of  *  tents/ 
except  our  bodies,  in  which  we  sojourn  for  a  time?  Nor 
have  we  '  an  abiding  city,  but  we  seek  one  to  come.'  In 
our  bodies,  as  under  tents,  we  carry  on  warfare.  Truly,  we 
are  violent  to  take  the  kingdom.  Indeed,  the  life  of  man 
here  on  earth  is  a  warfare  ;  and  as  long  as  we  do 
battle  in  this  body,  we  are  absent  from  the  Lord,  i.e., 
from  the  light.  For  the  Lord  is  light,  and  so  far  as  any 
one  is  not  in  Him,  so  far  he  is  in  darkness,  i.e.,  in  Kedar. 
Let  each  one  then  acknowledge  the  sorrowful  exclamation 
as  his  own :  '  Woe  is  me  that  my  sojourn  is  prolonged  !  I 
have  dwelt  with  those  who  dwell  in  Kedar.  My  soul  hath 
long  sojourned  in  a  strange  land.'  Therefore,  this  habitation 
of  the  body  is  not  the  mansion  of  the  citizen,  nor  the  house 
of  the  native,  but  either  the  soldier's  tent  or  the  traveller's 
inn.  This  body,  I  say,  is  a  tent,  and  a  tent  of  Kedar, 
because,  by  its  interference,  it  prevents  the  soul  from 
beholding  the  infinite  light,  nor  does  it  allow  her  to  see  the 
light  at  all,  except  through  a  glass  darkly,  and  not  face  to 
face. 

'  Do  you  not  see  whence  blackness  comes  to  the  church  ; 
whence  a  certain  rust  cleaves  to  even  the  fairest  souls  ? 
Doubtless,  it  comes  from  the  tents  of  Kedar,  from  the 
practice  of  laborious  warfare,  from  the  long  continuance  of 
a  painful  sojourn,  from  the  straits  of  our  grievous  exile, 
from  our  feeble,  cumbersome  bodies ;  for  the  corruptible 
body  presseth  down  the  soul,  and  the  earthy  tabernacle 
weigheth  down  the  mind  that  museth  upon  many  things. 
Therefore  the  soul's  desire  to  be  loosed,  that  being  freed 
from  the  body  they  may  fly  into  the  embraces  of  Christ. 
Wherefore  one  of  the  miserable  ones  said,  groaning — '  Oh 
wretched  man  that  I  am,  who  shall  deliver  me  from  the 
body  of  this  death  ?'  For  a  soul  of  this  kind  knoweth  that, 
while  in  the  tents  of  Kedar,  she  cannot  be  entirely  free  from 
spot  or  wrinkle,   nor  from   some  stains   of  blackness,  and 


94  ST.  BERNARD. 

wishes  to  go  forth  and  to  put  them  off.  And  here  we  have 
the  reason  why  the  spouse  calls  herself  black  as  the  tents  of 
Kedar.  But  now,  how  is  she  beautiful  as  the  curtains  of 
Solomon  ?  Behind  these  curtains  I  feel  that  an  indescrib- 
able holiness  and  sublimity  are  veiled,  which  I  dare  not 
presume  to  touch,  save  at  the  command  of  Him  who 
shrouded  and  sealed  the  mystery.  For  I  have  read,  '  He 
that  is  a  searcher  of  Majesty  shall  be  overwhelmed  with  the 
glory.'  I  pass  on  therefore.  It  will  devolve  on  you,  mean- 
while, to  obtain  grace  by  your  prayers,  that  we  may  the 
more  readily,  because  more  confidently,  recur  to  a  subject 
which  needs  attentive  minds  ;  and  it  may  be  that  the  pious 
knocker  at  the  door  will  discover  what  the  bold  explorer 
seeks  in  vain." 

The  bursting  forth  of  the  grief  is  most  pathetic 
and  beautiful.  "  It  was  fitting  that  I  should  depend 
for  everything  on  him  who  was  everything  to  me. 
He  left  me  but  little  besides  the  name  and  honour 
of  superintendent,  for  he  did  the  work.  I  was  called 
Abbot,  but  he  monopolised  the  Abbot's  cares." 

"  You  know,  my  children,  the  reasonableness  of  my 
sorrow ;  you  know  the  lamentable  wound  I  have  received. 
You  appreciate  what  a  friend  has  left  me  in  this  walk  of  life 
which  I  have  chosen — how  prompt  to  labour,  how  gentle  in 
manner  !  Who  was  so  necessary  to  me  ?  To  whom  was  I 
equally  dear?  He  was  my  brother  by  blood,  but  more 
than  brother  by  religion.  Deplore  my  misfortune,  I  beseech 
you,  who  know  these  things.  I  was  weak  in  body,  and  he 
sustained  me  ;  downcast  in  spirit,  and  he  comforted  me  ; 
slow  and  negligent,  and  he  stimulated  me  ;  careless  and 
forgetful,  and  he  admonished  me.  Whither  hast  thou  been 
torn  from  me,  whither  hast  thou  been  carried  from  my 
arms,  O  thou  man  of  one  mind  with  me,  thou  man  after  my 


ONE   TAKEN— TWO   STRICKEN.  95 

own  heart  ?     We  loved  each  other  in  hfe ;    how  are  we 
separated   in   death  !     Oh    most   bitter   separation,    which 
nothing  could  have  accomplished  but  death  !      For  when 
wouldest  thou  have  deserted  me  in  life  ?      Truly,  a  horrible 
divorce,  altogether  the  work  of  death.      Who   would   not 
have  had  pity  on  the  sweet  bond  of  our  mutual  love  but 
death,  the  enemy  of  all  sweetness  ?      Well  has  raging  death 
done  his  work ;  for,  by  taking  one,  he  has  stricken  two.     Is 
not  this  death  to  me  al.-^o  ?     Yea,  verily,  more  to  me  than  to 
Gerard — to  me,  to  whom  life  is  preserved,  far  gloomier  than 
any  death.     I  live  that  I  may  die  living,  and  shall  I  call 
that  life?      How  much  more  merciful,  O  stern  death,  hadst 
thou  deprived  me  of  the  use,  than  of  the  fruit  of  life.     For 
life   without   fruit   is   a   more   grievous   death.       Again,    a 
double  ruin  is  prepared  for  the  unfruitful  tree — the  axe  and 
the  fire.      Hating,  therefore,  the  labours  of  my  hands,  thou 
hast  removed  from  me  the  friend  through  whose  zeal  chiefly 
they  bore  fruit,  if  they  ever  did.     Better  would  it  have  been 
for  me,  O  Gerard  !  to  have  lost  my  life  than  thy  presence, 
who  wert  the  anxious  instigator  of  my  studies  in  the  Lord, 
my  faithful  helper,  my  careful  examiner.     Why,  I  ask,  have 
we  loved,  only  to  lose  one  another  ?     Hard  lot !  but  I  am 
to  be  pitied,  not  he  ;  for  if  thou,  dear  brother,  hast  lost  dear 
ones  they  are  replaced  by  dearer  still ;  but  what  consolation 
awaits  wretched  me,  deprived  of  thee,  my  only  comfort  ? 
Equally  pleasing  to  both   was   the  companionship  of  our 
bodies  by  reason  of  the  unison  of  our  minds,  but  the  sepa- 
ration has  wounded  only  me.     The  joys  of  life  were  shared 
between  us;  its  sadmss  and  gloom  are  mine  alone.     God's 
wrathful  displeasure  goeth   over  me,   and  His  indignation 
lieth  hard  upon  me.     The  delights  we  derived  from  each 
other's  society  and  conversation,   I  only  have  lost,  whilst 
thou  hast  exchanged  them  for  others,  and  in  the  exchange 
great  has  been  thy  gain. 

'*  In  place  of  us,  dearest  brother,  whom  thou  hast  not 
with  thee  to-day,  what  an  exceeding  multitude  of  joys  and 


g6  ST.  BERNARD. 


blessings  is  thine !  Instead  of  me,  thou  hast  Christ ;  nor 
canst  thou  feel  thy  absence  from  thy  brethren  here,  now 
that  thou  rejoicest  in  choruses  of  angels.  Nothing,  there- 
fore, can  make  thee  deplore  the  loss  of  our  society,  seeing 
that  the  Lord  of  Majesty  and  the  hosts  of  Heaven  vouchsafe 
to  thee  their  presence.  But  what  have  I  in  thy  stead? 
What  would  I  not  give  to  know  what  thou  now  thinkest 
of  thy  Bernard,  tottering  amid  cares  and  afflictions,  and 
bereaved  of  thee,  the  staff  of  my  weakness  ?  if  indeed,  it  be 
permitted  to  one,  who  is  plunged  into  the  abyss  of  light  and 
absorbed  in  the  great  ocean  of  eternal  felicity,  still  to  think 
of  the  miserable  inhabitants  of  the  earth.  It  may  be  that 
though  thou  knewest  us  in  the  flesh,  thou  knowest  us  no 
more,  and  since  thou  hast  entered  into  the  powers  of  the 
Lord,  thou  rememberest  only  His  justice,  forgetful  of  us. 
Moreover,  he  that  is  joined  unto  the  Lord  is  one  spirit,  and 
is  entirely  changed  into  one  holy  feeling  ;  neither  can  he 
think  of  or  wish  for  aught  but  God  and  the  things  which 
God  thinks  and  wishes,  being  full  of  God.  But  God  is  Love, 
and  the  more  closely  a  man  is  united  to  God  the  fuller  he  is 
of  love.  Further,  God  is  without  passions,  but  not  without 
sympathy,  for  His  nature  is  always  to  have  mercy  and  to 
spare.  Therefore  thou  must  needs  be  merciful,  since  thou 
art  joined  to  the  Merciful  One  ;  although  misery  now.  be  far 
from  thee,  thou  canst  compassionate  others  although  thou 
sufferest  not  thyself.  Thy  love  is  not  weakened,  but 
changed.  Nor  because  thou  hast  put  on  God  hast  thou 
laid  aside  all  care  for  us,  for  '  He  also  careth  for  us.' 
Thou  hast  discarded  thine  infirmities,  but  not  thy  affections. 
*  Charity  never  faileth : '  thou  wilt  not  forget  me  at  the 
last. 

"  I  fancy  I  hear  my  brother  saying  to  me, '  Can  a  woman 
forget  her  sucking  child,  that  she  should  not  have  compas- 
sion on  the  son  of  her  womb  ?  Yea,  they  may  forget,  yet 
will  I  not  forget  thee.'  Truly  it  were  lamentable  if  he  did. 
Thou  knowest,   Gerard,  where  I  am,  where  I  lie,  where 


GERARD  A   BURDEN-BEARER.  97 


thou  leftest  me.  No  one  is  by  to  stretch  forth  a  hand  to  me. 
I  look,  as  I  have  been  wont  to  do  in  every  emergency,  to 
Gerard,  and  he  is  not  there.  Then  do  I  groan  as  one  that 
hath  no  help.  Whom  shall  I  consult  in  doubtful  matters  ? 
To  whom  shall  I  trust  in  trial  and  misfortune  ?  Who  will 
bear  my  burdens  ?  Who  will  protect  me  from  harm  ?  Did 
not  Gerard's  eyes  prevent  my  steps  ?  Alas,  my  cares  and 
anxieties  entered  more  deeply  into  Gerard's  breast  than  into 
my  own,  ravaged  it  more  freely,  wrung  it  more  acutely.  His 
wise  and  gentle  speech  saved  me  from  secular  conversation, 
and  gave  me  to  the  silence  which  I  loved.  The  Lord  hath 
given  him  a  learned  tongue,  so  that  he  knew  when  it  was 
proper  to  speak.  By  the  prudence  of  his  answers,  and  the 
grace  given  him  from  above,  he  so  satisfied  both  our  own 
people  and  strangers,  that  scarcely  any  one  needed  me  who 
had  previously  seen  Gerard.  He  hastened  to  meet  the 
visitors,  placing  himself  in  the  way  lest  they  should  disturb 
my  leisure.  Such  as  he  could  not  dispose  of  himself,  those 
he  brought  into  me ;  the  rest  he  sent  away.  O  diligent 
man  !  O  faithful  friend !  "  * 

Yes  it  is,  we  think,  the  most  wonderful  of  funeral 
orations  ;  and  then  that  pathetic  close  :  "  And  now 
my  tears  put  an  end  to  my  words,  I  pray  Thee 
teach  me  how  to  put  an   end  to  my  tears." 

To  dwell  upon  all  the  minor  details  of  the  life 
of  the  illustrious  Churchman,  would  be  to  write  at 
length  the  history  of  the  times.  The  year  following 
that  in  which  his  brother  died,  1140,  when  he  was 
forty-nine  years  of  age,  that  great  duel  was  fought, 
which   has   never    been   allowed    to   pass    from    the 


*  I  have  quoted  lengthily  Mr.  Morison's  admirable  and 
vigorous  translation,  for,  indeed,  this  is  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  of  funeral  orations. 


ST.  BERNARD. 


memory,  not  merely  of  scholars,  but  even  of  cursory 
readers, — the  contest  of  Bernard  with  the  heresies 
of  Abelard.  Time  forbids  us  to  dwell  upon  the 
romantic  history  and  fortunes  of  that  most  famous 
of  heresiarchs.  From  his  pages  innumerable  heretics 
have  filled  their  minds  with  qualms  and  crotchets, 
sometimes  of  conscience,  more  frequently  of  notion 
and  opinion.  Perhaps  he  may  be  best  described  by 
saying, — that  what  David  Hume  has  been  to  our 
own  and  to  the  previous  age,  that  Abelard  was  to 
his  own  and  to  the  immediately  subsequent  times. 
He  pierced  into  that  dread  domain  in  which  men 
inquire  for  human  and  philosophical  reasons — where 
they  declare  their  wish  to  understand  as  well  as 
believe.  He  and  his  disciples  were  the  unconscious 
parents  of  a  good  deal.  But  when  he  was  con- 
demned and  sent  in  custody  to  the  monastery  of 
St.  Bernard,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  the  anguish 
which  extorted  from  him  that  cry — "  Good  Jesus, 
where  wast  Thou  then } "  But  he  was  a  vain, 
sensitive,  Rousseau-like  being  ;  yet  it  is  also  impos- 
sible not  to  notice  how  much  of  the  noble  there 
was  in  his  character,  and  how  he  laboured,  with 
practical  earnestness,  to  reform  many  of  the  crying 
abuses  of  the  Church.  Upon  Bernard,  to  whom 
religion  was  faith  and  certainty,  or  nothing,  we  can 
easily  conceive  he  would  look  with  a  haughty  and 
supercilious  condescension  and  pity.  We  pass  all  his 
interesting  relations  with  Heloise,  which  have  also, 
no  doubt,  materially  added  to  his  fame.  But  the 
mind  of  the  man  could  not  rest  and  be  still  and 
silent,  and  he  was  the  apostle  of  free  inquiry.  His 
inquiries  had  even  pierced  into  the  holiest  of  all — 


THE  TOURNAMENT  OF  SENS.  99 


the  very  ark  of  the  Trinity.  The  disputes  of  the 
age  were  most  significant ;  and  Abelard  and 
Bernard,  as  the  foremost  men,  must  inevitably  come 
into  coUision.  Bernard  denounced  the  opinions  of 
Abelard,  and  Abelard  challenged  Bernard  to  a 
logical  disputation.  All  our  readers  know  of  that 
great  gathering,  that  expected  tournament  at  Sens, 
and  how,  to  the  amazement  of  that  wonderful 
assembly,  when  the  hour  came,  Abelard  refused  to 
plead,  but  appealed  from  his  adversary  and  from 
the  assembly,  to  Rome. 

As  Bernard  drew  near  to  the  close  of  his  life,  his 
strength,  like  that  of  meaner  men,  became  labour 
and  sorrow,  especially  as  the  time  came  when  he 
very  earnestly  desired  to  rest  altogether.  He  was 
called  to  preach  before  the  Pope,  and  the  King  of 
France,  the  second  crusade.  Vezelai  was  the  place 
fixed  for  that  wondrous  gathering.  The  town  could 
not  hold  the  people  assembled.  The  vast  throng 
was  convened  upon  the  declivity  of  a  hill,  over- 
looking the  plain  of  Vezelai ;  the  king,  Louis  VII., 
and  his  queen  were  there  ;  barons  and  knights,  and 
innumerable  multitudes  of  hardly  wrought  peasants. 
But  king,  or  queen,  or  nobles  were  not  the  objects 
of  attraction.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux  was  there  on 
the  top  of  the  hill.  A  high  platform  of  wood  was 
raised.  On  this  stood  the  preacher  and  the  king 
alone.  Thence  he  could  be  seen  by  all,  if  not 
heard  ;  and  from  those  lips  flew  the  words  of  love, 
aspiration,  and  sublime  self-sacrifice.  The  wondrous 
light  of  that  thin,  calm  face,  the  flash  of  tenderness 
and  terror  from  those  dove-like  eyes,  communicated 
themselves    to   the   crowd.     Then  rose   the   cry   for 


ST.   BERNARD. 


"  Crosses  !  crosses  !  "  the  murmur  from  the  vast  sea 
of  faces.  He  scattered  them  broadcast  among  the 
people.  They  were  soon  exhausted.  He  tore  up 
his  monk's  cowl  to  satisfy  the  demand.  He  did 
nothing  but  make  crosses  so  long  as  he  remained 
in  the  town.  The  mind  of  Europe  spoke  through 
Bernard.  The  crusade  was  proclaimed.  And  now 
he  travelled  through  Germany  to  preach  the  second 
crusade  at  Friburg,  Basle,  Constance,  Spires,  Cologne, 
Frankfort,  Mayence  ;  and,  wherever  he  went,  there 
the  same  tumult  gathered  round  him.  A  daily  repe- 
tition of  the  scene  on  the  hill  of  Vezelai  took  place. 
A  simultaneous  rush  of  the  whole  population  to  see 
him  and  to  hear  him,  and  then  the  assumption  of  the 
cross  by  the  larger  portion  of  the  able-bodied  male 
inhabitants.  Bernard  says  that  scarcely  one  man 
was  left  to  seven  women.  At  Frankfort  he  nearly 
lost  his  life.  The  crowd  so  beset  him  that  he  was 
in  danger  of  being  suffocated.  Conrad,  the  Emperor, 
for  a  time  did  his  best  to  keep  off  the  press  ;  but  it 
was  more  than  he  could  do.  At  last,  laying  aside 
his  cloak,  he  gripped  Bernard  in  his  brawny  arms, 
and  hoisting  him  over  his  shoulders,  carried  him 
away  in  safety.  A  procession  of  miracles,  too, 
attended  him  on  his  way  ;  but  they  astonished  him. 
"I  can't  think,"  he  says,  "what  these  miracles  mean." 
It  is  altogether  a  sad,  painful  story  of  the  fanaticism, 
not  only  of  a  great  mind,  but  of  the  age.  We  turn 
with  pleasure  from  his  wild  proclamation  of  the 
fanaticism  of  the  sword  against  the  Infidel,  to  his 
equally  enthusiastic,  and  more  noble  and  Christian 
defence  of  the  Jews  from  the  horrors  of  persecution. 
His  defence  of  this  much-misused  people  was  one  of 


HIS  DEATH.  loi 


the  i^"^  items  of  our  saint's  history  in  which-  he  was 
in  advance  of  his  age. 

The  crusade  was  one  long  disaster  ;  and  the  fate 
of  the  mighty  movement  was  sharply  visited  upon 
the  head  of  its  chief  apostle.  But  other  cares  pressed 
upon  him,  especially  the  conquest  of  innumerable 
heresies,  the  writing  of  many  books  ^  and  letters 
connected  with  the  defence  of  the  faith,  and  also 
with  efforts  to  repress  the  rising  of  the  papacy,  of 
which  he  only  saw  the  beginning. 

He  died  at  the  age  of  sixty-two.  As  he  was 
dying,  even  ecclesiastics  gathered  round  his  dying 
bed  to  talk  of  public  affairs  ;  but  they  could  not 
interest  him.  "  Marvel  not,"  said  he,  "  I  am  already 
no  longer  of  this  world."  Earnest  contendings  of 
prayerful  struggles  went  on  around,  and  in  the 
delirium  of  their  grief,  his  friends  implored  him  to 
stay  ;  and  they  created  some  contest  in  the  mind  of 
the  expiring  saint,  but  only  to  the  lifting  his  eyes, 
and  the  expression  of  his  wish  that  God's  will  might 
be  done, — dying  in  the  faith  and  practice  of  his 
great  and  memorable  saying,  "  So  far  from  being 
able  to  answer  for  my  sins,  I  cannot  answer  even  for 
my  righteousness." 

After  all,  were  we  to  select  the  moment  when  we 
could  most  have  wished  to  have  seen  and  heard  St. 
Bernard  it  would  have  been  that  summer  evening  of 
his  brother's  death. 

We  may  suppose  naturally,  in  accordance  with 
general  usage  and  monastic  custom,  his  brother 
lying  on  the  bier,  in  his  presence  in  the  church  ; 
and  thus  the  occasion  fitted  to  one  of  the  most 
tender  and  pathetic   sermons   which    ever  fell    from 


102  S2:  BERNARD. 


a  preacher's  lips.  Its  words  of  rich  evangelic  truth 
Luther  might  have  uttered,  and  suggestive  visions 
of  a  decaying  body  and  a  glorified  spirit  struggled 
for  mastery  through  the  words  of  the  sermon.  He 
saw  his  dead  brother  lying  before  him,  Avasted  with 
disease  ;  there  was  "  the  tent  of  Kedar,"  of  blackness. 
He  looked  up  and  saw  the  spirit  walking  in  whiteness, 
and  beautiful  in  the  life  and  righteousness  of  the 
risen  Saviour,  and  there  he  beheld  him  glorious 
"  as  the  curtains  of  Solomon."  At  last  in  a  passion 
of  prayer  he  closed  :  "  Thou  gavest  Gerard,  O  Lord ; 
Thou  hast  taken  him  away !  and  if  I  murmur  that 
he  is  taken,  I  forget  not  that  he  was  given.  I 
render  thanks  that  Thou  didst  deem  me  worthy  to 
possess  him."  And  then  follows  that  surely  ineffable 
close,  which  we  have  already  quoted, — "  And  now 
my  tears  put  an  end  to  my  words,  I  pray  Thee, 
teach  me  how  to  put  an  end  to  my  tears  1  " 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

FALSE  finery  in  the  pulpit,  or,  as  some  one 
has  too  irreverently  expressed  it,  the  parson 
in  his  war  paint.  And  indeed  we  have  known 
specimens  of  pulpit  finery  which  have  filled  us  with 
more  disgust  than  the  wild  attire  of  the  Red  Indian 
aborigines  of  the  wild  forests  of  Old  America.  Still, 
we  must  not  be  unjust  ;  there  is  a  fashion  in  finery, 
and  intellectual  finery  changes  even  as  the  attires 
of  social  life  :  the  fine  and  stately  style  of  pulpit 
eloquence  is  a  relic  of  a  bygone  literary  fashion, 
and  the  pulpit  of  our  day  is  suffering  rather  from  the 
slip-shod  style  of  talk  than  from  the  stiff  and  stately. 
We  remember  a  time  when  our  fathers  in  the  ministry 
could  scarcely  open  their  lips  in  conversation  with- 
out magnificently  rounding  their  periods  ;  too  great 
an  attention  to  rotund  phraseology  can  scarcely  be 
said  to  be  the  fault  of  the  ministers  of  the  present 
age.  But  the  last  age  !  What  shall  we  say  of  the 
pulpit  eloquence  of  the  times  immediately  preceding 
ours  ?  A  friend  tells  us  how,  under  singular  circum- 
stances, he  dined  with  two  brothers,  both  in  the 
ministry  ;  this  is  now  about  thirty  years  since.  They 
were  both  far  beyond  the  age  of  threescore  years 
and    ten,   they   were   ministers,  and   had   both  been 


104     THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

very  distinguished  ministers,  of  the  old  school  ;  they 
were  both  wealthy,  the  younger  brother,  at  whose 
house  they  were  dining,  very  wealthy.  But  our 
friend  shall  tell  the  story  himself. 

There  were  but  four  of  us,  myself  as  chaplain, 
and  the  wife  of  the  younger  brother ;  all  the 
appointments  of  the  table  were  in  the  highest  style 
of  elegance  and  affluence  ;  a  footman  in  livery  stood 
behind  each  chair.  I  have  dined  with  many  a 
nobleman  and  millionaire,  but  I  never  saw  any- 
thing to  exceed  that  table  on  that  occasion  at  any 
of  the  great  tables  of  wealth  and  luxury.  Well,  as 
I  said,  there  were  but  four  of  us  ;  it  was  the 
anniversary  of  the  younger  brother's  wedding.  His 
wife  was  indeed  a  very  beautiful  and  charming 
woman,  very  admirable,  and  excellent,  but  nearly 
two  generations  younger  than  her  husband,  and  yet 
a  large  part  of  all  the  grandeur  was  hers.  At  the 
close  of  the  dinner  rose  the  elder  brother,  the  Rev. 
John  ;  had  he  been  addressing  a  meeting  at  Exeter 
Hall,  or  making  some  after-dinner  speech  at  the 
Mansion  House,  he  could  not  have  composed  his 
sentences  with  a  more  accomplished  pathos,  or  bade 
his  words  heave  out  with  a  more  grotesque  grandeur. 
"  Dear  Brother  George,"  he  said,  "  and  you,  dear,  most 
engaging,  and  amiable  sister,  my  feelings  perfectly 
overwhelm  me  beneath  the  gracious  pressure  of  this 
most  auspicious  and  propitious  occasion.  Dear 
Brother  George,  occupying  spheres  not  altogether  of 
the  most  insignificant  throughout  our  lives,  and  not 
greatly  remote  from  each  other  " — they  had  both  been 
for  fifty  years  Congregational  ministers  within  two 
miles   of  each  other — "it   enchants   me  that   these, 


CONGREGATIONAL    GRANDEES.  105 

which  may  be  called  your — as  they  certainly  are 
my — declining  days,  should  be  enfolded  amidst  the 
amenities  of  such  a  delightful  serenity,  and  oh  !  how 
much  more  that  your  home  should  not  only  know 
the  beauties  and  the  graces  of  exquisite  taste  and 
urbanity,  but  that  they  owe  so  much  to  the 
charming  presence  of  dear  Sister,  that  presence  which 
gilds  with  such  an  ineffable  tenderness,  I  would  dare 
to  say  lustre,  the  delicious  valleys  where  we  are 
yet  reminded  of  setting  suns."  A  lot  more  followed 
like  this.  Well,  I  sat  there  perfectly  bewildered 
in  a  stream  of  talk  of  this  kind,  only  heaving  with 
a  crowd  of  Latinisms  which  have  passed  from  my 
memory.  Then  up  got  the  other  one,  and  shot  off 
in  the  same  direction,  only  he  was  always  more 
remarkable  for  a  high  and  ornate  style  of  speech. 
He  never  either  could  or  would  call  a  spade  a 
spade  ;  he  would  have  spoken  of  it  as  "  that  marvellous 
illustration  of  the  inventive  resources  and  mani- 
pulatory processes  of  the  essential  genius  of  the 
being  we  call  man,  wherewith  we  penetrate  into 
those  dark  recesses  beneath  the  mould,  and  by  whose 
agency  we  compel  coy  and  reluctant  nature  to 
deck  herself  in  her  mantle  of  virgin  green."  That  is 
just  how  he  would  have  spoken  of  a  spade  had 
he  been  in  a  pulpit.  On  this  occasion,  gracefully 
invited  by  his  brother  to  a  waltz  of  words,  forth 
he  sported,  and  I  think  he  outdid  himself.  As  I 
said,  there  were  four  of  us  ;  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  preaching  to  large  and  crowded  and  select 
audiences, — indeed,  so  had  they  both  ; — he  never 
talked  in  a  finer  style  than  he  did  at  that  dinner 
table.     "  Dear  Brother  John,"  he  said,  "  my  heart  is 


io6      THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

keenly  susceptible.  Every  emotion  in  my  nature 
most  tenderly  reciprocates  the  amiable  munificence 
in  which  you  have  so  copiously  expressed  your 
fraternal  regards,  and  you,  my  most  beloved  and 
engaging  companion,  in  such  a  presence  I  need  not 
hesitate  to  say  the  solace  and  sweetness  of  my 
existence.  Dear  Brother  John,  I  survey  with  most 
ineffable  satisfaction  the  long  and  singular  but  not 
unenlightened  sinuosities  along  which  we  may  be 
said  to  have  moved  the  caravan  of  our  career  across 
the  singular  desert  of  our  being.  Emanations  of 
one  home,  our  course  has  been,  in  reference  to  our 
mutual  regards,  singularly  felicitous,  raised  by  a 
tender  intercommunication  of  interests  and  by  the 
appropriate  dignities  of  non-intrusion,  etc.,  etc." 

These  speeches  were  made  standing  ;  I  remember 
it  well,  and  the  blaze  of  light,  and  the  blaze  of 
plate  too,  and  the  whole  munificence  of  the  affair  ; 
but  the  blaze  of  those  speeches  comes  over  my 
memory  with  a  far  more  singular  significance.  To 
see  those  two  old  gentlemen  standing  up,  leaning, 
as  each  was  obliged  to  do,  upon  the  table  or  upon 
his  richly  mounted  cane,  and  tickling  each  other 
under  the  fifth  rib  like  that,  was  a  study.  And  yet 
this  was  the  English  pulpit  two  generations  back. 
This  we  call  the  cambric  frill  style  of  eloquence. 

Now  what  shall  we  say  .'' — that  this  was  a  pair 
of  old  Pecksniffs.?  That  would  be  unjust;  we  knew 
both  of  those  old  gentlemen,  and  perfect  gentlemen 
they  were  in  heart  and  mind  and  character.  Honoured 
and  beloved  they  lived,  honoured  and  beloved  they 
died ;  not  a  breath  ever  tarnished  their  name.  To 
many  of  our  readers  they  would  seem  a  pair  of  Turvey- 


ARTISTIC  CONTINENTAL  PULPITS.         107 

drops.  Their  speeches,  and  especially  the  speech  of  the 
younger,  would  sound  most  ludicrous  as  illustrations 
of  pulpit  finery,  but  they  only  assure  us  that  fashions 
change  in  speech  as  in  coats  ;  and  we  may  be  sure 
that  if  we  laugh  at  the  rotund  phraseology  of  those 
two  old  gentlemen,  they  would  recoil  in  horror  from 
much  of  ours  ;  ours,  however,  is  not  the  only  age 
which  has  produced  a  style  of  things  altogether  too 
"  utterly  too  too."  The  age  or  the  ages  of  fine 
pulpits  has  or  have  passed.  But  perhaps  few  of 
our  readers  have  any  idea  of  the  gorgeousness  and 
splendour  of  some  of  the  pulpits  on  the  continent 
of  Europe.  Readers  of  John  Ruskin  are  not  likely 
to  forget  his  wise  and  eloquent  words  in  "  The  Stones 
of  Venice,"  in  which  he  descants  upon  the  mission 
and  the  power  of  the  pulpit.  Sitting  in  the  Duomo, 
or  chief  church,  of  the  Isola  di  Torcello — the  mother 
island  of  the  Venetian  States, — sitting  before  the 
pulpit,  impressive  in  the  severe  simplicity  of  its 
ancient  and  early  beauty,  an  elevated  train  of 
thought  passed  through  the  mind  of  the  brilliant 
critic  as  to  the  symbolism  of  the  pulpit  in  all 
ages.  English  people  who  have  not  travelled  have 
very  little  idea  of  either  the  magnitude  or  the 
magnificence  of  the  pulpits  of  the  Continent,  although 
some  splendid  models  may  be  seen  in  our  South 
Kensington  Museum.  It  would  seem  that,  while 
some  preachers  have  attempted  iji  the  pulpit  the 
display  of  a  gorgeous  pomp  of  words  and  the  arti- 
fices of  a  splendid  rhetoric,  others  have  attempted  to 
convert  the  very  wood,  marble,  and  mosaics,  into  a 
sort  of  speechless  Bossuet  of  fine  carved  work.  The 
pulpit  of  the   cathedral   of  Louvain  does  not  date 


io8     THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

beyond  the  year    1742,  but  it  represents   St.   Peter 
on    a    rock  and    the    conversion    of    St.    Paul    sur- 
mounted by   palm  trees  ;    the    stricken    horse    and 
fallen  rider  are  the  admiration  of  all  artists  for  their 
beauty  of  form  and  expression.     But  many  of  the 
pulpits   of  the  Netherlands  are  remarkable   for  the 
strength  and  majesty  of  their  wood  carving.      Some- 
times they  stand  on  pillars,  representing,  in  life  size, 
the  prophets   and    the  Evangelists  ;    sometimes   the 
cunning   of    the  artists   has   been   displayed    in    the 
symbols   of   the   four  creatures    of    Ezekiel    or    the 
Revelation  ;    sometimes   the  preacher  stands   as  be- 
fore the  tall  stem    and  overshadowing  branches    of 
a  noble  tree,  intended  to  symbolise  the  Tree  of  Life. 
In  St.  Andrew's  in  Antwerp,  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  singular  of  the  carved  pulpits  of  the  Nether- 
lands, represents  Andrew  and  Peter  called  from  their 
boats  and  nets  by  the  Saviour.     The  pulpit  was  built 
by  Van   Hool  ;  the  figures  were  executed  by  Van 
Ghul,  and  the  picture  of  our   Saviour  has  a  dignity 
of  expression  it  might  be  thought  impossible  the  art 
of   the    wood    carver    could    attain.      Such   are    the 
pulpits  of  the  Netherlands,  characterized  by  a  sombre 
magnificence.      Crossing   the   Alps,   and    descending 
into  the    land   of  sunlight,    the   pulpits  become    far 
more  light  and  spacious  ;  costly,  but  with  the  costli- 
ness of  marbles   and   mosaics,   and   often   abounding 
with  meretricious  ornament  and  display.     All  these 
varieties  of  art  were  no  doubt  passing  through  the 
mind  and   memory  of   Mr.   Ruskin   when  the  plain 
but  very  ancient  pulpit  of  Torcello  suggested  to  him 
the    wise    thoughts     to    which    we    referred     above. 
"  When  the  sermon  is  good,"  he  says,  "  we  need  not 


RUSKIN  ON  PREACHERS  AND  PULPITS.     109 

much  concern  ourselves  about  the  form  of  the  pulpit"  ; 
and  then  he  goes  on  :  "I  believe,  therefore,  in  the 
first  place,  that  pulpits  ought  never  to  be  highly 
decorated.  The  speaker  is  apt  to  look  mean  or 
diminutive  if  the  pulpit  is  on  a  very  large  scale,  or 
covered  with  splendid  ornament.  I  have  observed 
that,  in  almost  all  cathedrals,  when  the  pulpits  are 
peculiarly  magnificent  sermons  are  not  often  preached 
from  them,  but  rather,  and  especially  for  any  im- 
portant purpose,  from  some  temporary  erection  in 
other  parts  of  the  building  "  ;  and,  a  little  further  on, 
he  continues  : — "  There  are  two  ways  of  regarding  a 
sermon — either  as  a  human  composition,  or  a  Divine 
message.  If  we  look  upon  it  entirely  as  the  first,  and 
require  our  clergymen  to  finish  it  with  their  utmost 
care  and  learning  for  our  better  delight,  whether  of 
ear  or  intellect,  we  shall  necessarily  be  led  to  expect 
much  formality  and  stateliness  in  its  delivery,  and  to 
think  that  all  is  not  well  if  the  pulpit  have  not  a 
golden  fringe  round  it  and  a  goodly  cushion  in  front 
of  it,  and  if  the  sermon  be  not  fairly  written  in  a 
black  book,  to  be  smoothed  upon  the  cushion  in  a 
majestic  manner  before  beginning.  All  this  we  shall 
duly  come  to  expect ;  but  we  shall,  at  the  same  time, 
consider  the  treatise  thus  prepared  as  something  to 
which  it  is  our  duty  to  listen,  without  restlessness, 
for  half  an  hour  or  three  quarters,  but  which,  when 
that  duty  has  been  decorously  performed,  we  may 
dismiss  from  our  minds  in  happy  confidence  of 
being  provided  with  another  when  next  it  shall  be 
necessary.  But  if  once  we  begin  to  regard  the 
preacher,  whatever  his  faults,  as  a  man  sent  with  a 
message  to  us,  which  it  is  a  matter  of  life  or  death 


no     THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

whether  we  hear  or  refuse  ;  if  we  look  upon  him  as 
set  in  charge  over  many  spirits  in  danger  of  ruin, 
and  having  allowed  to  him  but  an  hour  or  two  in 
the  seven  days  to  speak  to  them  ;  if  we  make  some 
endeavour  to  conceive  how  precious  those  hours 
ought  to  be  to  him — a  small  vantage  on  the  side 
of  God — after  his  flock  has  been  exposed  for  six  days 
together  to  the  full  weight  of  the  world's  temptation, 
and  he  has  been  forced  to  watch  the  thorn  and 
thistle  springing  in  their  hearts  and  to  see  what 
wheat  had  been  scattered  there  snatched  from  the 
wayside  by  this  wild  bird  and  the  other  ;  and  at 
last,  when,  breathless  and  weary  with  the  week's 
labour,  they  give  him  this  interval  of  imperfect  and 
languid  hearing,  he  has  but  thirty  minutes  to  get  at 
the  separate  hearts  of  a  thousand  men,  to  convince 
them  of  all  their  weaknesses,  to  shame  them  for  all 
their  sins,  to  warn  them  of  all  their  dangers,  to  try  by 
this  way  and  that  to  stir  the  hard  fastenings  of  those 
doors  where  the  Master  Himself  has  stood  and 
knocked,  yet  none  opened,  and  to  call  at  the  open- 
ing of  those  dark  streets  where  Wisdom  herself  has 
stretched  forth  her  hands,  and  no  man  regarded — 
thirty  minutes  to  raise  the  dead  in  ;  let  us  but  once 
understand  and  feel  this,  and  we  shall  look  with 
changed  eyes  upon  that  frippery  of  gay  furniture 
about  the  place  whence  the  message  of  judgment 
must  be  delivered,  which  either  breathes  upon  the 
dry  bones  that  they  may  live,  or,  if  ineffectual, 
remains  recorded  in  condemnation  perhaps  against 
the  utterer  and  the  listener  alike,  but  assuredly 
against  one  of  them.  We  shall  not  so  easily  bear 
with  the  silk  and  gold  upon  the  seat  of  judgment, 


PREACHERS'   FALSE  FINERY. 


nor  with  ornament  of  oratory  in  the  mouth  of  the 
messenger  ;  we  shall  wish  that  his  words  may  be 
simple,  even  when  they  are  sweetest,  and  the  place 
from  whence  he  speaks  like  a  marble  rock  in  the 
desert,  about  which  the  people  have  gathered  in 
their  thirst."  So  speaks  John  Ruskin  in  this 
sublime  extract ;  the  quotation  has  been  long,  and 
our  apology  to  Mr.  Ruskin,  if  that  be  necessary,  is 
in  what  seems  to  us  to  be  the  exceeding  weight  and 
worth  of  his  words. 

And  from  the  false  finery  of  the  pulpit  itself,  how 
easy  and  natural  is  the  transition  to  the  false  finery 
in  the  pulpit — the  false  finery  of  words,  the  -mere- 
tricious and  finical  adornments  which  have  so  often 
drawn  the  attention  away  from  the  reality  and  the 
truths  which  it  is,  and  should  ever  be,  the  chief 
business  of  the  preacher  to  present  to  the  heart  and 
to  the  mind, — as  if  it  were  of  prime  importance  that 
the  draught  of  water  should  be  offered  in  a  jewelled 
chalice  or  a  rich  porcelain  vase.  Robert  Browning 
satirises  this  propensity  when  he  says  : — 

**  *  Ha  !  is  God  mocked,'  as  He  asks  ? 

Shall  I  take  upon  me  to  change  His  tasks. 

And  dare,  despatched  to  a  river  head 

For  a  simple  draught  of  the  element, 

Neglect  the  thing  for  which  He  sent. 

And  return  with  another  thing  instead  1 — • 

Saying,  '  Because  the  water  found 

Welling  up  from  underground 

Is  mingled  with  the  taints  of  earth, 

Therefore  I  turned  from  the  oozings  muddy, 

And  bring  Thee  a  chalice  I  found  instead : 

What  matters  the  water  ?    A  hope  I  have  nursed 

That  the  waterless  cup  will  quench  my  thirst.' 

Better  have  knelt  at  the  poorest  stream 


112      THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

That  trickles  in  pain  from  the  straitest  rift  1 

For  the  less  or  the  more  is  all  God's  gift ; 

I  then,  in  ignorance  and  weakness, 

Taking  God's  help,  have  attained  to  think 

My  heart  does  best  to  receive  in  meekness 

That  mode  of  worship  as  most  to  His  mind 

Where,  earthly  aids  being  cast  behind, 

His  All  in  all  appears  serene, 

With  the  thinnest  human  veil  between. 

Letting  the  mystic  lamps,  the  Seven, 

The  many  motions  of  His  Spirit, 

Pass  as  they  list  to  earth  from  heaven. 

For  the  preacher's  merit  or  demerit, 

It  were  to  be  wished  the  flaws  were  fewer 

In  the  earthen  vessel,  holding  treasure. 

Which  lies  as  save  in  a  golden  ewer ; 

But  the  main  thing  is,  does  it  hold  good  measure  ? 

Heaven  soon  sets  right  all  other  matters  !  " 

Thus  both  orders  of  pulpit  finery  do  remind  us 
very  naturally  of  that  odd,  perhaps  not  unpicturesque, 
but  surely  uncomfortable  architecture  of  our  fore- 
fathers described  by  Gray  as  an  effort — 

"  To  raise  the  ceiling's  fretted  height. 
Each  panel  in  achievements  clothing, 
Rich  windows  that  exclude  the  light. 
And  passages  that  lead  to  nothing." 

There  are  many  varieties  of  pulpit  finery,  but 
perhaps  the  simplest  order  is  that  of  mere  pedantry 
— the  pedant  is  usually  fond  of  interlarding  his 
discourse  with  a  little  bit  of  Latin,  or,  perhaps,  some 
word  or  two  of  possibly  badly  accented  Greek  ;  the 
pedant  is  like  that  old  man  in  Greece  who,  having 
a  house  to  sell,  took  a  brick  from  it  in  his  pocket 
down  to  the  market  as  a  specimen  of  the  building. 
Even  so  when  we  have  heard  some  fine  words,  some 


PULPIT  PEDANTRY.  113 


little  and  most  inconsequential  Latin  or  Greek 
quotation,  we  have  said,  "  Ah  !  that  is  his  little  brick, 
but  perhaps  he  has  not  the  house  after  all  ! " 

And  this  was  an  order  of  preaching  well  reproved 
by  that  mighty  preacher  and  satirist  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  Antony  Vieyra,  the  Portuguese  whom 
we  quoted  some  pages  back.  He  says  :  "  It  is  possible 
to  hear  a  preacher  speaking  in  our  own  language  and 
not  to  understand  what  he  says.  It  seems  sometimes 
necessary  to  have  a  vocabulary  for  the  pulpit.  I  could 
wish,  at  all  events,  our  preachers  would  be  intelligible 
in  their  proper  names,  for  they,  in  their  ornateness, 
have  rebaptized  the  saints,  and  every  author  whom 
they  cite  is  an  enigma.  Thus  they  speak  of  ^  the 
Penitent  Sceptre'  and  of  ^ the  Evangelistic  Apelles' 
thus  of  '  the  Eagle  of  Africa'  thus  of  '  the  Honeycomb 
of  Clairvauxl  of  '  the  Purple  of  Bethlehem '  !  Do 
you  call  this  quoting }  They  say  that  the  Penitent 
Sceptre  means  David,  the  Evangelistic  Apelles 
Luke,  the  Honeycomb  of  Clairvaux  St.  Bernard, 
the  Purple  of  Bethlehem  St.  Jerome,  the  Eagle 
of  Africa  St.  Augustine,  the  Mouth  of  Gold  St. 
Chrysostom.  But  a  man  might  take  it  the  other 
way,  and  believe  that  the  Purple  of  Bethlehem  was 
Herod,  the  Eagle  of  Africa  Scipio,  the  Mouth  of 
Gold  Midas.  If  a  lawyer  were  thus  to  quote 
Bartolus,  or  Baldus,  or  any  other  great  lawyer, 
would  you  trust  your  cause  in  his  hands  "i  If  a 
man  were  to  speak  thus  in  conversation,  would  you 
not  set  him  down  as  a  fool  }  That,  then,  which  is 
folly  in  ordinary  life,  why  should  it  be  wisdom  in 
the  pulpit } " 

But  we  have  noticed  this  vice  in  English  preachers. 

8 


114     ^-^-^  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

Charles  Simeon  was,  as  our  readers  all  know,  a  great 
sermon-maker  and  a  great  critic  of  sermons.  A 
young  preacher  was  reading  to  him  a  sermon, 
hoping  to  receive  his  approbation,  and  reached  the 
following  passage :  "  Amidst  the  tumult  and  ecstacy 
of  the  children  of  Israel,  the  son  of  Amram  stood 
unmoved."  "  The  son  of  Amram  !  "  interrupted 
Simeon,  "  the  son  of  Amram !  who  was  'he  .■' " 
"  Why,  sir,  I  meant  Moses."  "  Then,"  exclaimed 
the  critic,  "  if  you  meant  Moses,  why  could  you 
not  say  Moses  ? "  It  is  astonishing  what  instances 
are  before  us.  One  sermon  tells  us  that  "  the 
pidchritude  of  truth  is  resultant  from  its  homo- 
geneity." Again,  "  when  we  take  a  comprehensive 
view  of  this  S7iblunary  spJiere,  it  is  inconceivably 
lamentable  to  discover  everywhere  among  the  chil- 
dren of  men  indubitable  evidences  of  a  perverse 
proclivity  to  prevarication."  Our  old  friend  Falstaff 
put  this  better  when  he  said,  "  Lord,  how  this  world 
is  given  to  lying  !  " 

And  while  we  are  in  this  train  of  remark  let  us 
say  there  is  a  kind  of  pulpit  finery  which  really 
amounts  to  bad  language.  We  have  heard  of  many 
quite  ingenious  attempts  to  dilute  wine  into  water, 
or,  to  take  another  image,  and  one  our  readers  will 
like  better,  to  thicken  milk  into  mud.  A  young 
preacher  took  a  very  good,  luminous,  and  instructive 
text,  which  ought  to  have  made  him  thoughtful, 
modest,  and  reverent :  "  God  is  a  Spirit,  and  they 
that  worship  Him  must  worship  Him  in  spirit 
and  in  truth."  He  divided  that  text,  he  said, 
"  naturally,"  in  the  following  pleasant  fashion.  He 
said,  I.   "Here  we  have  the  transcendental  properties 


DICTIONARY  OR  BIBLE?  115 

of  the  Divine  nature — God  is  a  Spirit.  2.  We  have 
there  set  before  us  the  anthropomorphic  relations 
under  which  those  transcendental  properties  in 
Divine  nature  stand  revealed — spirit  and  truth ; 
and,  3.  The  symbolism  under  which  those  anthro- 
pomorphic relations  to  the  transcendental  properties 
of  the  Di\-ine  nature  constitute  worship."  Was  not 
this  a  pretty  illustration  of  what  may  be  called  the- 
housc-that-Jack-built  style  of  pulpit  eloquence  }  The 
admirable  Augustus  de  Morgan  tells  a  capital  story 
of  some  preacher  who  opened  one  of  the  divisions  of 
his  sermon  thus  :  "  Now,  my  brethren,  let  us  proceed 
to  make  a  logical  incision  into  the  psychology  of 
God."  Another  preacher  of  this  style  of  eloquence 
begins  a  sermon  thus  :  "  The  incomprehensibility  of 
the  apparatus  developed  in  the  machinery  of  the 
universe  may  be  considered  a  supereminent  mani- 
festation of  stupendous  majesties,  v/hether  a  man 
stand  upon  the  platform  of  his  own  mind  and 
ponders  scrutinizingly  on  its  undecipherable  cha- 
racters, or  whether  he  looks  abroad  over  the 
magnificent  equipments  and  regalities  of  nature, 
surveying  its  amplitudes  in  all  their  scope  and  its 
unfathomabilities  in  all  their  profundities,"  upon 
which  an  intelligent  lady  remarked,  "  I  ought  to 
have  taken  my  dictionary  instead  of  my  Bible  to 
church  to-day  ! " 

And  to  the  same  order  also  belongs  the  vermilion 
and  gamboge  style.  The  heads  and  sentences 
which  we  have  given  we  did  not  hear  ourselves,  but 
we  do  remember,  some  years  since,  listening  to  a 
sermon  by  one  who  would  be  called  a  famous 
preacher  ;  it  was  one  of  the  great  annual  mission- 


no       THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

ary  sermons  ;  the  congregation  was  a  crowded  one  ; 
in  a  certain  sense    it  was  select ;    the  sermon  was 
full    of  pulpit  finery.      The  object  of    the   preacher 
was  to  show  the  triumphs  of  Christianity,  and  he 
a  little  shocked  our  sensibilities  in   the  earlier   part 
of  his  discourse  by  speaking  in  anticipation  of  the 
time  "  when  religion  should  pillow  her  head  on  the 
bosom  of  philosophy,"  which   also  was   a  very  pretty 
image  if  we  follow  the  good  advice  of  the  ancient 
master   of    rhetoric,    and    paint    our    images   before 
we    speak    them.      We   could    not   help   exclaiming 
mentally,  "  Ah  !   Mr.  Preacher,  had  you  but  followed 
that    wise    advicct,    Paint    your    images    before    you 
employ  them,  and   so  test  their  fitness,  we    should 
not  have  been   invited   to  that    recumbent    scene ! " 
But  this  was  nothing  to  what  followed,  and  we  .think 
we   stared   aghast   when,  in    order  to    illustrate   the 
triumphs  of  the  missionary,  the  preacher  exclaimed, 
"  Mark  yon    gory  savage !      Often    have    those   lips 
slaked    their   thirst   in    human   blood  !      There    is   a 
tear  in  yonder  eye ;    catch    it !      Not    all    the   orbs 
which  wheel  their  way  through  the  vast  profundities 
of   the  far-off  spheres   and  spaces,  in   their   infinite 
rounds,  can  weigh  in  the  mind  of  Omnipotence  with 
yon   pellucid   orb  !  "      This  was  wonderful   language 
and  wonderful  imagery.      But  the  revered  old  pastor 
of  the  church  in  which  this  remarkable  oration  was 
pronounced,  himself  one   of  the    greatest    preachers 
of  his  age,  was — shall  we  dare  to  say  it } — in  a  rage 
in    the  vestry  as  he  said   to  us,  "  What  could   the 
man   mean,  sir,  by  going  up  into  my  pulpit  to  talk 
such    outrageous    nonsense  ? "      The    point    of    the 
reminiscence,    however,    is    that    here    was    a    mere 


A   BIT  OF  REAL  PATHOS.  117 

piece  of  pathos,  an  image  without  a  point  or  a 
discrimination,  a  piece  of  thoughtless  word-monger- 
ing,  scarcely  even  falling  beneath  the  designation 
of  finery. 

We  cannot  help  contrasting  this  imaginary  tear 
of  the  imaginary  savage  with  another  reminiscence, 
in    which  we  saw  a  whole  congregation    melted  to 
real  tears  beneath  a  sudden  touch  ;  it  was  when,  in 
his  own  church  at  Chester,  we  were  listening  to  that 
fountain  of  spontaneous  affection   Richard  Knill ;  it 
was  a  funeral  service  conducted  on  the  occasion  of 
the  funeral  of  our  great  Duke  of  Wellington.     The 
preacher  had  but  a  very  short  time  before  lost  his 
only  son  ;  but  he  pursued  his  way  through  a  path 
of  very  natural  thought  suggested  by  the  death  of 
so  highly  eminent  and  illustrious  a  man,  when  all 
at  orice   he    exclaimed  something  to  the  following 
effect  : — "  Ah  !  it  is  a  great  loss,  a  national  loss,  and 
that    was    a    very    great    sight    when    all    London 
poured  out,  and  the  representatives  of  all  the  crowns 
and   thrones  of  Europe  followed  the   great  warrior 
to  his   tomb  !      But " — and   at   this  point  the  tears 
gushed  out,  and  the  preacher  stood  for  a  moment  or 
two,  the  old   man   mastering  himself,    for  he  could 
not    speak — "  But,    you   know,  ^that    did    not  come 
home  to  me  and  touch  me  as  when  I  saw  the  body 
of  my  dear  boy  carried  out  of  my  house  the  other 
day."      It  was  only  a  sudden  stroke  of  speech,  but 
there  was  probably  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  whole  of 
that    large   congregation.      This  was  pathos,   not   so 
much  eloquence  as  the  touch  of  nature  which  "makes 
the  whole  world  kin." 

Some  men  in   the  pulpit  fancy  they  are  nothing 


ii8      THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

unless  their  words  are  big.  Their  idea  of  eloquence 
is  the  sesquipedalia  verba — words  all  very  well  in 
themselves,  but  put  together  on  principle,  as  Lord 
Macaulay  says,  so  as  to  mean  nothing  in  heaven 
above,  or  the  earth  beneath,  or  the  waters  under  the 
earth,  having  as-  much  relation  to  eloquence  as  the 
colours  in  a  Turkey  carpet  have  to  the  colours  in 
one  of  Raphael's  paintings.  Thus  we  meet  with  the 
following  passage,  in  which  the  preacher  desires  to 
say  that  every  man  has  a  sense  of  deathlessness  in 
him.  He  announced  his  doctrine  in  this  pleasant 
fashion  :  "  The  deep  intuitional  glance  of  the  soicl, 
penetrating  beneath  the  surface  and  sphere  of  the 
superficial  and  phenomenal  to  the  remote  recesses 
of  absolute  being,  adumbrates  its  own  immortality 
in  its  precognitive  conceptions." 

They  must  have  fine  words  and  sonorous  sentences; 
they  seem  to  fulfil  the  conditions  deemed  essential 
to  a  great  preacher  in  the  estimate  of  a  servant  girl 
of  Professor  Wilson.  She  was  a  Scotch  cook  ;  De 
Quincey  was  staying  with  Wilson,  and  he  sorely 
afflicted  her  spirit  in  the  matter  of  mutton  chops, 
and  would  sometimes  address  the  astounded  cook, 
couching  his  remarks  in  such  terms  as  these  : 
"  Owing  to  dyspepsia  afflicting  my  system  and  the 
possibility  of  any  additional  disarrangement  of  the 
stomach  taking  place,  consequences  incalculably 
distressing  would  arise,  so  much  so,  indeed,  as  to 
increase  nervous  irritation,  and  prevent  me  from 
attending  to  matters  of  overwhelming  importance, 
if  you  do  not  remember  to  cut  the  mutton  in  a 
diagonal  rather  than  a  longitudinal  form."  The 
cook,  as  we  have  said  a    Scotch  woman,   had  great 


*'AN  AWFZr   SIGHT  O'    WORDS:'  119 

reverence  for  Mr.  de  Quincey  as  a  man  of  genius, 
but  after  one  of  these  interviews  her  patience  was 
pretty  well  exhausted,  and  she  said,  "  Weel,  I  ne'er 
heard  the  like  o'  you  in  a'  my  days.  Eh,  yon 
bodie  has  an  awfu'  sight  o'  words.  If  it  had  been 
my  ain  master  that  was  wanting  his  dinner,  he  would 
ha'  ordered  a  hale  tablefu'  wi'  little  mair  than  a 
wauf  o'  his  haun'  ;  and  here's  a'  this  claver  aboot  a 
bit  o'  mutton  no  bigger  than  a  preen  chin.  Mr.  de 
Quinsnay  would  mak'  a  gran'  preacher,  though  I  am 
thinking  a  hantle  o'  the  folk  wouldna  keer  what  he 
was  driving  at."  There  seem  to  be  men  who  can 
only  talk  in  this  mighty  fashion  ;  when  great  men 
do  it — Johnsons,  De  Ouinceys,  and  Chalmerses — we 
can  only  wonder,  but  they  use  words  like  themselves 
in  a  wonderful  way  ;  but  when  little  men  do  it 
they  remind  us  of  the  child  in  Papa's  greatcoat  or 
a  Liliputian  in  top-boots.  Has  not  Dr.  Parr, 
himself  a  sinner  in  this  way,  expressed  it  of  the 
imitators  of  Johnson,  "  They  had  the  nodosities  of 
the  oak  without  its  vigour,  and  the  contortions  of 
the  sibyl  without  her  inspiration  "  .? 

But  there  is  another  kind  of  false  finery.  The 
false  finery  is  not  limited  to  words.  Bad  language 
very  frequently  results  from  the  attempt  often  made 
to  make  words  carry  too  much  ;  if  we  do  this,  they 
will  assuredly  break  down,  for,  at  the  very  best, 
words  are  only  symbols  ;  the  thing  itself,  of  which 
the  word  is  the  sign,  must  be  more  than  the  word — 
the  word  is  only  a  poor  finite  medium,  it  may  be, 
for  some  infinite  thing.  Think  of  the  word  S,  E,  A, 
sea !  what  is  there  in  those  letters  to  represent  the 
mighty  round  on  which  the  heavens  are  mirrored,  on 


120     THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPFT. 

which  float  the  navies  and  the  fleets  of  the  world  ? 
Or  think  of  the  word  sky  !  but  what  is  there  in  that 
to  represent  that  vast  concave,  with  all  its  firma- 
mental  fires,  its  bright  chronometry  of  days  and 
years  ?  Think  of  the  word  Love  !  but  what  is  there 
in  those  four  letters  to  represent  that  mysterious 
passion,  the  key  of  all  history,  the  soul  of  all 
tragedy  ?  and  then  think  of  the  word  G,  O,  D,  God  ! 
three  letters  to  represent  the  source  and  fountain  of 
all  things,  the  infinite  all-comprehending  conscious- 
ness !  Now,  all  these  words  are  quite  finite,  and 
inadequate  to  the  things  or  beings  represented  ; 
but  they  are  true  words,  true  symbols  ;  they  cannot 
be  improved  upon,  and  they  represent  to  us  better 
than  any  other  words  could  do  that  which  is  so 
signified. 

But  one  of  the  most  dangerous  freaks  of  some  men 
in  our  day — ministers  and  others — is  the  showing 
of  a  kind  of  pulpit  finery  in  attempting  to  unfix 
words  from  their  mooring.  We  have  a  gentleman  in 
England  who  has  attempted  this  on  a  very  audacious 
scale,  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold,  our  apostle  of  light 
and  sweetness,  or,  as  we  more  frequently  call  him, 
our  English  prophet  Jeremiah  in  kid  gloves.  In  his 
book  "  Literature  and  Dogma,"  a  book  which  has 
had  an  extensive  audience,  he  pleads  earnestly  for  the 
unfixing  words  from  their  moorings.  He  says  that  the 
language  of  the  Bible  is  floating,  fluid,  passing, 
rhetorical,  literary,  not  rigid,  fixed,  and  scientific,  and 
that  Paul  uses  the  words  grace,  new  birth,  justification, 
repentance,  sanctification,  in  a  floating  and  fluid 
manner,  just  as  men  use  the  terms  of  eloquence 
and  poetry  ;  then  he  goes  on  to  apply  his  reasoning 


LEARNED  PRETENTIOUSNESS.  121 

to  the  word  God,  says  it  has  no  distinct  meaning, 
that  the  word  triangle  is  definite,  but  these  theolo- 
gical terms  are  indefinite.  Now,  it  is  at  this  point, 
we  say,  let  us  be  sure  that  we  do  not  overburden 
words,  that  we  do  not  attempt  to  make  them  carry 
what  they  were  never  intended  to  carry,  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  make  them  carry  their  own  weight, 
and  by  this  test  them  if  they  be  true  words,  for, 
thus  holding  fast  the  form  of  sound  words,  we  shall 
find  they  test  themselves  in  our  consciousness.  After 
all,  we  know  them  as  we  know  other  words — by  our 
knowledge  of  that  which  they  were  intended  to 
represent  or  to  signify.  Floating,  fluid,  poetical 
expressions !  what  of  the  terms  arithmetic,  mathe- 
matics, and  navigation  ?  They  are,  and  they  must 
be  unalterably  fixed.  How  can  we  steer  the  vessels 
if  the  knowledge  of  the  planets  be  floating,  fluid, 
and  poetical .''  The  Pleiades  and  Jupiter  may  be 
poetical  designations  for  heavenly  bodies,  but  they 
exist  in  the  firmament  to  us  as  positive  facts,  and 
David  Hume  has  said,  our  nation  could  not  be 
great  in  commerce  and  manufactures  were  it  not 
acquainted  with  the  Belts  of  Jupiter  ;  it  is  a  remote 
and  recondite  inference,  but  it  is  easy  to  perceive 
his  meaning  ;  and  those  terms  grace,  and  repentance, 
and  justification,  and  sanctification  represent  not 
floating  analogues,  but  fixed  ideas  in  human  con- 
sciousness, and  we  know  them  by  what  we  find  as 
wanting  or  satisfied  in  ourselves  and  expressed  by 
our  own  consciousness. 

This  learned  pretentiousness  in  which  some,  at  any 
rate,  of  our  English  pulpits  are  prone  to  indulge, 
in  which  a  real  philosophic  ignorance  seeks  to  cover 


122     THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

itself  with  a  veil  of  words,  while  it  dangerously 
attempts  to  unfix  true  words  from  their  moorings 
and  their  meanings,  has  been  well  satirised  by  Dean 
Mansell.  Some  will  perhaps  be  surprised  that  the 
great  expositor  and  most  favoured  pupil  of  Sir 
William  Hamilton  could  use  so  queer  a  stylograph. 
We  are  far  from  accepting  Dean  Mansell's  philosophy, 
while  we  admire  his  satire  and  his  genius. 

"  With  a  bug,  bug,  bug,  and  a  hum,  hum,  hum, 
Hither  we  mighty  Philosophers  come  ! 
Professors  we, 
From  over  the  sea. 

From  the  land  where  Professors  in  plenty  be  ; 
And  we  thrive  and  flourish,  as  well  we  may. 
In  the  land  that  produced  one  Kant  with  a  K 
And  many  Cants  with  a  C. 
Where  Hegel  taught,  to  his  profit  and  fame, 
That  something  and  nothing  were  one  and  the  same. 
The  absolute  difference  never  a  jot  being 
'Twixt  having  and  not  having,  being  and  not  being, 
Where,  reared  by  Oken's  plastic  hands, 
The  Eternal  Nothing  of  Nature  stands  ; 
And  Theology  sits  on  her  throne  of  pride, 
As  Arithmetic  personified  ; 
So  we  change  to  a  gladder  and  livelier  strain. 
For  great  god  Pan  is  alive  again  ; 
He  lives  and  he  reigns  once  more. 
With  deep  intuition  and  mystic  rite, 
We  worship  the  Absolute-Infinite, 
The  Universe-Ego,  the  Plenary- Void, 
The  Subject-Object  identified. 

The  Great  Nothing-Something,  the  Being-Thought, 
That  mouldeth  the  mass  of  Chaotic-Nought. 
With  a  bug,  bug,  bug,  and  a  hum,  hum,  hum, 
Hither  we  great  Professors  come  !  "  * 

*  Letters,    Lectures,    and    Reviews    by    Dean    Mansell — 
Phro7itisterio7i,  pp.  401-403. 


A   FRENCH  DOMINICAN' S  SERMON.  123 

When  words  are  used  in  this  fashion,  they  go 
wandering  about  like  ghosts  without  clothes,  things 
that  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves,  saying, 
"Where  are  we  ?  Who  will  own  us  ?"  like  the  letter 
put  into  the  box  of  the  post  office  addressed  "  John 
Smith."  Poor  letter  !  it  never  reached  its  destina- 
tion, the  case  with  how  many  words  which  aim  at 
nothing  and  hit  it ! 

But  there  is  another  order  of  pulpit  finery.  How 
many  instances  we  can  call  to  mind  of  sermons  in 
which  the  false  finery  has  only  given  a  ridiculous 
aspect  to  the  whole  discourse.  We  have  always  dis- 
liked the  method  of  tickling  a  text  for  the  purpose 
of  extorting  some  hidden  secret,  which,  indeed,  as 
it  never  contained,  so  it  was  never  intended  to  reveal, 
but  which  was  trotted  forth  by  the  preacher's  in- 
genuity. Robert  Robinson,  in  his  most  interesting 
and  entertaining  notes  to  Claude  on  the  composition 
of  a  sermon,  quotes  from  a  discourse  by  Father 
Selle,  a  celebrated  French  Dominican,  from  the  text 
"  I  do  set  My  bow  in  the  cloud,"  surely  a  very 
sweetly  suggestive  text,  and  one  upon  which  a  pious 
mind  might  easily  play  in  an  exceedingly  elevating 
and  comfortable  manner.  The  first  words  of  Father 
Selle  are  not  very  exceptionable ;  he  says,  "  It  is 
not  enough  for  the  celestial  rainbow  to  please  the 
eye,  and  it  conveys  the  richest  consolation  into  the 
heart,  the  word  of  God  having  constituted  it  the 
happy  presage  of  tranquillity  and  peace — '  I  do  set 
My  bow  in  the  cloud  ' "  ;  but  then  the  preacher  goes 
on  to  show  how  the  bow  enriched  with  clouds  be- 
comes the  crown  of  the  world,  the  gracefulness  ot 
the  air,  the  garland  of  the  universe,  the  salubrity  ot 


124     THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

heaven,  the  pomp  of  nature,  the  triumph  of  serenity, 
the  ensign  of  love,  the  picture  of  clemency,  the 
messenger  of  liberality,  the  mansion  of  amorous 
smiles,  the  rich  stanza  of  pleasure,  in  fine  the 
trumpet  of  peace,  for  "I  do  set  My  bow  in  the  cloud." 
After  this  strange  muddle  of  incongruous  images 
and  mixed  metaphors,  the  preacher  took  another 
flight  in  a  strain  too  ridiculous,  if  not  too  irreverent, 
to  quote.  Yet  we  will  give  you  the  closing  para- 
graphs : — 

"  It  is  a  bow,  gentlemen,  with  which  the  roaring 
thunder  being  appeased,  the  heavenly  Orpheus,  in 
order  insensibly  to  enchant  the  whole  creation, 
already  become  immovable  by  His  Divine  harmony, 
plays  upon  the  violin  of  this  universe,  which  has  as 
many  strings  as  it  has  elements,  for  ^  I  do  set  My  boiv 
in  the  cloud!  Yes,  it  is  a  bow  in  which  we  see 
Mars,  the  eternal  god  of  war,  who  was  just  now 
ready  to  overwhelm  the  world  with  tempest,  meta- 
morphosed into  a  god  of  love.  Yes,  it  is  a  bow  all 
gilded  with  golden  rays — a  silver  dew — a  theatre  of 
emeralds,  rubies,  and  diamonds,  to  increase  the  riches 
of  this  poor  beggarly  world  ;  but,  you  perceive, 
gentlemen,  I  am  speaking  of  that  celestial  rainbow, 
that  bow  in  the  cloud,  Mary  Magdalene"  !  So  that 
Mary  Magdalene  is  like  a  rainbow,  and  a  rainbow  is 
like  a  fiddlestick  ! 

An  impetuous  fancy  will  often  carry  even  a 
faithful  preacher,  who  possesses  these  attributes,  and 
who  has  not  severely  disciplined  his  style  in  the 
study,  into  a  prurient  indulgence  in  words  which 
hang  like  gilded  tassels  and  false  fringes  of  speech 
upon  his  discourse.      But  it  has  been  very  truly  said 


SOLEMN  TRIFLING.  125 

the  man  who  deliberately  goes  into  a  pulpit  to  utter 
a  fine  thing  is  guilty  of  a  great  sin.  Then,  again, 
sometimes  even  a  sincere  desire  to  open  or  elucidate 
Scripture  has  led  to  a  solemn  trifling,  which  has 
indeed  illustrated  the  preacher's  ingenuity  in  a  play 
of  idle  fancy.  Van  der  Meulen,  of  Utrecht,  in  his 
dissertations  published  in  171  3,  furnishes  an  illustra- 
tion of  what  we  mean.  The  text  from  which  the 
good  man  discourses  is  Genesis  ii.  21,  22:  "And 
He  took  one  of  his  ribs,  and  closed  up  the  flesh 
instead  thereof ;  and  the  rib  which  the  Lord  God  had 
taken  from  man  made  He  a  woman."  Upon  this 
the  preacher  proceeded  to  inquire,  "  First,  was  the 
rib  taken  from  the  right  or  the  left  side  of  Adam  ? 
Second,  was  Adam,  after  the  loss  of  that  rib,  a 
maimed  or  an  imperfect  man  ? " 

Very  grave  and  important  questions  for  discussion 
in  the  pulpit.  Then  he  proceeds  ;  "  Thirdly,  why 
was  Eve  formed  of  a  rib  and  not  of  the  dust  of  the 
ground  }  Had  Eve  been  formed  of  the  dust  of  the 
ground,  she  would  have  been  a  stranger  to  Adam ; 
had  she  been  created  out  of  his  foot,  he  might  have 
despised  her  or  trampled  on  her,  as  being  very  much 
his  inferior  ;  had  she  been  produced  out  of  his  head, 
she  might  have  taken  too  much  upon  herself  and 
pretended  to  domineer;  it  was  therefore  more  proper 
she  should  be  taken  from  the  middle  of  Adam's 
body,  on  which  account  he  could  not  but  have  a  due 
esteem  for  her."  And  then  the  preacher  cites,  in 
confirmation  of  this  so  important  a  doctrine,  the 
words  of  Thomas  Aquinas,  the  angelical  doctor,  and 
also  those  of  the  Master  of  the  Sentences,  Duns 
Scotus,   who    says  :    "  I   take'  thee    to    be,   not    my 


126     THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

mistress,  nor  my  servant,  but  my  wife."  This  childish 
love  of  the  marvellous,  this  silly  desire  of  uttering 
sparkling  things  before  the  eyes  or  the  ears  of  a 
congregation,  has  led  many  a  good  man  astray  by 
the  discovery  of  false  brilliants  in  the  word  of  God 
which  assuredly  the  Divine  Spirit  never  put  there. 

It  was  a  golden  motto  of  Horace  "  not  to  pro- 
duce smoke  from  light,  but  light  from  smoke "  ; 
but  such  gentlemen  reverse  the  canon,  and  transpose 
it  to  smoke  from  light ;  they  seem  to  set  traps  to 
catch  texts,  and  when  we  hear  of  them  we  think 
of  that  good  and  holy  mollah  who,  going  into 
a  Turkish  mosque,  and  hearirK^  one,  with  a  very 
harsh  and  disagreeable  voice,  reading  the  Koran  in 
a  very  loud  tone,  went  to  hiin  and  said,  "  What  is 
your  monthly  stipend  ?  "  "  Nothing."  "  Then  why 
give  yourself  so  much  trouble?"  and  he  replied,  "  I 
am  reading  for  the  sake  of  God "  ;  then  the  good 
and  holy  mollah  replied,  ''For  God's  sake  do  not  read, 
for  if  yon  read  the  Book  after  this  fashion,  yon  will 
drive  son  Is  into  the  pit  I  " 

It  does  not  follow  because  a  preacher  selects  a 
singular  topic  or  text,  and  deals  with  it  even  in  a 
singular  and  original  manner,  that  he  shall  Zander, 
like  Van  der  Meulen,  into  the  grotesque,  or,  like 
Father  Selle,  into  the  irreverent. 

How  different  is  all  this  from  the  usually  judicious 
management  of  dear  old  Matthew  Henry,  whose 
ingenuity  was  certainly  equalled  by  his  solidity  of 
judgment.  Take  his  sermon  on  Ephesians  iv.  2  2, 
24  :  "  Put  off  the  old  man  ;  put  on  the  new,"  in 
which  he  brings  out  in  four  particulars  v/hat  it  is  to 
die  of  sin,  what  it  is  to  live  to  righteousness. 


SIMPLICITY  OF  MATTHEW  HENRY.        127 

"  In  Particular. 

"  I.  Put  off  Pride  (Jer.  xiii.  15)  ;  put  on  Humility-  (i 
Peter  v.  5). 

"  2.  Put  off  Passion  (Col.  iii.  8) ;  put  on  Meekness  (i  Peter 
iii.  4). 

"  3.  Put  off  Covetousness  (Heb.  xiii.  5) ;  put  on  Content- 
ment (Heb.  xiii.  5). 

"  4.  Put  off  Contention  (Gen.  xiii.  8)  ;  put  on  Peaceable- 
ness  (James  iii.  7)." 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  hearers  do  delight  in 
the  exhibition  of  ingenuity  in  dealing  with  a  subject, 
and  foolish  preachers  have  often  conformed  them- 
selves to  this  taste  in  a  very  reprehensible  style  ; 
but  Matthew  Henry  has,  in  an  especial  manner, 
shown  how  this  ingenuity  may  be  employed  in  a 
most  useful  and  exemplary  fashion.  Probably  no 
circumstance  in  Scripture  seems  less  likely  to  furnish 
a  fruitful,  pleasant,  and  instructive  discourse  than 
that  instance  when  the  Ethiopian,  Ebed-melech,  drew 
Jeremiah  out  of  the  dungeon  with  "  cords,  old  cast 
clouts,  and  rotten  rags."  Now  notice  how  Matthew 
Henry  turns  the  story  to  use  :  "  First  fact — A 
prophet  is  in  a  dungeon,"  from  which  he  observes, 
"It  is  common  for  wicked  people  to  look  upon  God's 
faithful  ministers  as  their  enemies."  "Second  fact — 
The  king  could  not  help  him";  observation,  "Those 
will  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for  who,  though 
they  have  a  secret  kindness  for  good  people,  dare 
not  own  it  in  a  time  of  need."  "  Third  fact — Ebed- 
melech  was  an  Ethiopian "  ;  observation,  "  Some 
Gentiles  have  more  piety  and  equity  and  sense  of 
right   than   some   Jews,"   etc.,  etc.      "  Fourth  fact — 


128     THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

Ebed-melech  was*  a  courtier";  observation,  "God 
has  a  remnant  in  all  places,  and  among  all  sorts  ; 
there  were  even  saints  in  Caesar's  household." 
"  Fifth  fact — The  king  was  sitting  in  the  gate  on 
public  business  when  Ebed-melech  applied  to  him 
for  the  release  of  Jeremiah  "  ;  observation,  "  Whither 
should  oppressed  innocency  flee  for  protection  but 
to  the  throne  ?  No  time  must  be  lost  when  life  is 
in  danger,  especially  a  valuable  life  ;  God  can  raise 
up  friends  for  His  people  in  distress  when  they  little 
thought  of  them."  "  Sixth  fact — The  king  orders 
his  release  "  ;  observation,  "  The  hearts  of  kings  are 
in  God's  hands  ;  let  this  encourage  us  to  appear 
boldly  for  God  ;  we  may  succeed  better  than  we 
could  have  thought."  "Eighth  fact — Ebed-melech 
took  old  clouts  and  rags  from  under  the  treasury 
in  the  king's  house";  observation,  "No  waste  should 
be  made  even  in  kings'  palaces  ;  broken  linen,  like 
broken  meat,  should  be  preserved  for  the  use  of  the 
poor."  "Ninth  fact — Ebed-melech  directed  Jeremiah 
to  put  the  soft  rags  under  his  arm-holes  "  ;  obser- 
vation, "  Distressed  people  should  be  relieved  with 
tenderness."  "  Tenth  fact — Ebed-melech  did  not 
throw  the  rags  down,  but  let  them  down  by  cords"  ; 
observation,  "  The  poor  should  be  relieved  with 
respect,"  etc.,  etc.  This  is  ingenious,  but  it  is  solid. 
But  the  manifestations  of  false  finery  in  the  pulpit 
are  very  manifold,  and  many  of  those  to  which  we 
have  referred  are  of  a  far  more  serious  description 
than  the  instances  of  the  old  gentlemen  whom  we 
mentioned  at  the  commencement  of  this  chapter. 
Indeed,  there  was  nothing  unreal  about  those 
dignified  old  rhetoricians ;  they  were  the  remnants 


** BROTHER   GEORGE''    ON  BISHOPS.        129 

of  the  age  of  Johnson,  characters  satirised  in  that 
odd  and  clever  but  forgotten  satire  Lexiphanes. 
James  Hervey  and  Edward  Young  wrote  something 
after  that  ponderous  fashion,  and  we  do  not  doubt 
their  reaUty.  When  one  of  those  old  gentlemen — it 
was  the  "  Brother  George " — stepped  forth  on  a 
platform  once  to  move  a  vote  of  thanks  to  one  of 
the  most  illustrious  bishops  of  the  English  Church 
upon  the  occasion  of  his  presiding  at  a  meeting  of 
the  Bible  Society,  he  said  he  had  always  regarded 
the  bishops  of  the  Church  of  England  as  the  most 
brilliant  diamonds  in  the  monarch's  crown  ;  he  a 
little  broke  the  unity  of  the  figure  by  adding 
that  the  most  splendid  diamond  always  derived  a 
very  especial  lustre  from  its  setting,  and  he  was  quite 
certain  that  no  setting  could  so  befit  and  confer 
brilliancy  upon  the  diamond  as  that  in  which  they 
saw  the  right  reverend  prelate  before  them, — the 
chair  of  the  Bible  Society !  Well,  this  sort  of 
speech  would  not  be  very  graciously  received  nowa- 
days ;  but  it  was  a  way  those  old  folks  had,  and  we 
are  far  from  using  the  instance  for  the  purpose  ot 
impeaching  the  reality  and  truthfulness  of  their 
character. 

We  should  be  the  last  to  plead  for  any  falsehood 
or  simulation  of  manners  ;  still  we  think  that  a 
gravity,  a  reserve,  and  even  reticence  of  deportment, 
and  an  accompanying  carefulness  of  speech,  are 
not  without  their  effect  in  producing  a  sense  of 
respect  among  men. 

We  remember  when  we  were  young  our  old 
minister ;  he  lived  on  the  verge  of  a  retreating 
generation  of  things.     We  looked  up  to  him  with 

9 


130      THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

a  sense  of  awe  such  as  we  are  perfectly  certain  it 
is  now  utterly  beyond  the  power  of  any  children  to 
realize  for  their  pastors.  His  appearance  was 
remarkable  ;  he  always  came  to  us  attired  in  knee- 
breeches,  black  silk  stockings,  and  with  silver  buckles 
to  his  shoes  ;  beneath  his  arm,  his  gold-headed 
cane  ;  the  style  of  his  speech  was  also  of  the  gold- 
headed  and  silver-buckle  description  ;  and  when  he 
patted  us  on  the  head  and  addressed  two  or  three 
words  to  us,  our  heart  was  all  of  a  flutter, — 

"  It  was  e'en  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings." 

And  was  not  that  better  than  the  rowdyism 
frequently  to  be  detected  in  the  ministry  of  the 
present  day  ?  We  beg  to  say,  for  our  part,  that 
to  us  a  minister  is  a  minister,  and,  being  such,  he 
not  only  has  a  character  to  maintain,  but  a  peculiar 
character — a  character,  we  think,  which  should  be 
as  venerable  as  that  of  a  judge  ;  and  what  should 
we  think  of  a  judge,  a  platform-haunting,  newspaper- 
editing,  noisy,  blatant,  vociferating  man,  always 
ready  with  his  knuckles,  carrying  respectability 
neither  in  his  character  nor  his  appearance,  reducing 
the  idea  of  his  profession  to  a  trade  ?  What  should 
we  think  of  him  ?  And,  without  being  offensive, 
it  is  to  be  feared  this  is  where  the  office  of  the 
ministry  has  suffered  and  is  suffering.  Two  spirits 
have  ensnared  and  fairly  got  the  better  of  it — the 
trade  spirit  and  the  political  spirit  ;  and  the  language 
has  lost  something  of  its  old  polish  because  character 
has  lost  its  polish  and  its  dignity  too. 

This  may  seem  to  many  to  reckon  up  the  account 
too  smartly  and  sharply  ;  we  may,  therefore,  in  some 


ORNAMENTAL  PREACHERS.  131 

measure,  condone  what  may  seem  a  rough  estimate 
by  admitting  that  a  rude  and  rough  reality  is  the 
characteristic  of  the  age,  and  the  monarchs  of  the 
pulpit  have  yielded  themselves,  perhaps  even  too 
much,  to  the  rough  spirit  demanded  by  the  times. 
It  may  be  thought  that  we  have  too  simply  dwelt 
upon  the  corruption  of  pulpit  eloquence,  without  suffi- 
ciently analysing  the  cause  ;  it  may  be  at  once  said 
that  nothing  can  sustain  its  lofty  tone  but  an  elevated 
sense  of  the  purity  and  reality  of  the  spiritual  life. 

But,  before  we  close,  it  will  be  expected  that  we 
make  some  remarks  upon  the  true  ornaments  of  a 
sermon.  For  a  preacher  may  be  really  ornamental 
while  yet  he  disdains  the  mere  study  of  finery ; 
he  may  be  ornamental  as  a  jasmine  or  an  eglantine  ; 
he  will  not  desire  to  pass  muster  as  a  merely 
ornamental  preacher ;  he  will  not  put  his  sermons 
into  a  turning  lathe,  nor  exercise  upon  them  the 
ingenuity  of  a  mere  wood  carver.  The  merely 
ornamental  preacher  is  strange  at  this  ;  with  what 
paternal  tenderness  he  regards  his  little  verbal 
darlings  I  he  writes  them  out,  and  rewrites,  and 
touches  them  up,  and  retouches,  pats  them  on  the 
head,  and  trots  them  up  and  down  his  study,  holds 
them  up  to  the  looking-glass,  tucks  them  up  plea- 
santly, and  rocks  them  in  the  cradle  of  anticipated 
success,  carefully  insinuating  the  faintest  possible 
suspicion  of  thought  to  the  largest  possible  quantity 
of  words,  which,  also,  is  very  much  like  what  the  great 
statesman,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  spoke  of  as  a  kind  of 
eloquence  which  has  "  the  smallest  possible  quantity 
of  common-sense  enveloped  in  the  greatest  number 
of  equivocal  words." 


132      THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

A  wonderful  means  of  grace  your  ornamental 
preacher, —  the  man  who  lays  himself  out  to  work 
up  fine  things,  and  never  suspects  that  a  night 
may  come  in  which  God  may  say  to  him,  "  TJioii 
fool !  " 

We  love  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  it  is  exceedingly 
delightful  to  read  many  of  his  sermons ;  but  it 
sometimes  seems  a  fair  question  to  ask  how  far  they 
could — how  far  many  of  them  could — have  been 
of  any  possible  use  to  the  persons  who  listened  to 
them.  They  are  rich  mosaics,  and  they  remind 
us  of  those  splendid  pulpits  to  which  we  have 
referred  ;  they  are  full  of  rich  and  rare  learning, 
and  strains  of  what  may  in  truth  be  called  splendid 
poetry,  brilliant  coruscations  of  genius  ;  but  they 
are  often  a  magnificent  robe  which  only  hides  the 
beauty  of  the  figure  ;  or  a  rapid  series  of  dissolving 
views,  which  rather  divert  than  fix  the  attention. 
We  have  no  love  for  Dr.  South  ;  with  all  his 
strength,  and  frequent  reality  of  wit,  he  is  far  too 
coarse,  as  he  was  far  too  much  of  a  time-server  for 
our  taste  ;  and  we  have  no  doubt  that  no  small 
amount  of  jealousy  of  Taylor  mingled  with  a 
criticism  which  is,  beyond  all  doubt,  intended  for 
him  and  for  his  style.  When  speaking  of  the 
preaching  of  Paul,  from  the  text,  "  We  preach  not 
with  the  enticing  words  of  man's  wisdom,"  Dr. 
South  says,  "  We  have  nothing  here  of  '  the  fringes 
of  the  north  star '  ;  nothing  of  '  nature's  becoming 
unnatural  '  ;  nothing  of  '  the  down  of  angels'  wings,' 
nor  'the  beautiful  locks  of  the  cherubim';  no  starched 
similitudes,  with  a  '  Thus  have  I  seen  a  cloud  rolling 
in   its   airy  mansion,'  and  the  like  ;  no,  these  were 


A   CHURCH  AND  SERVICE  OF  STONE.     133 

sublimities  above  the  rise  of  the  apostolic  spirit. 
The  apostles,  poor  mortals,  were  content  to  take 
much  lower  steps,  and  to  tell  the  world  in  plain 
terms,  '  He  that  believeth  shall  be  saved,  and  he 
that  believeth  not  shall  be  damned,'  but  they  made 
their  hearers  cry  out,  '  Men  and  brethren,  what  shall 
we  do  ? ' "  We  need  not  quote  more  of  South's  criti- 
cisms ;  they  were  like  the  man — harsh,  coarse,  and 
unkind,  and  with  a  dash  of  falsehood  ;  but  they  con- 
tain not  the  less  a  just  denunciation  of  finery  in  the 
pulpit. 

And  this  kind  of  verbal  finery  is  mostly,  at 
best,  only  beautiful  frost  work ;  for,  as  a  rule, 
the  presence  of  meretricious  ornament  implies  the 
absence  of  feeling  ;  it  is  cold  itself,  and  creates  its 
like.  Once  in  our  night  visions  we  beheld,  and  lo ! 
we  stood  before  a  vast  stone  church.  We  thought 
that  the  petrifying  waters  of  time,  and  the  rolling 
ages,  had  turned  all  the  mighty  temple  of  the  praise 
and  faith  of  the  human  heart  into  stone.  We 
entered  ;  it  was  vast  and  mighty,  but  cold,  how 
cold  !  We  thought  we  paced  to  and  fro  its  aisles, 
the  only  living  being  in  it,  for  it  seemed  to  us  that 
all  its  occupants  were  frozen  into  stone  ;  the  pulpit 
was  stone,  the  minister  was  stone,  the  altar  was 
stone,  and  at  its  stony  altar,  a  stony  priest  con- 
ducted the  mummery  of  a  stony  service.  We 
thought  we  heard  as  it  were  the  muttered  chant 
of  prayers,  but  as  they  ascended,  they  froze  and 
turned  to  gelid  frost,  and  hung  in  icicles  on  the 
roof  and  corbels  of  the  place  ;  it  was  all  stone — ice 
and  stone  !  Then  we  thought  we  saw  as  it  were 
a    dove    hover    over    the    place ;    we    heard    voices 


134     THE  FALSE  FINERY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

sa}'ing,  "  Live  ! "  we  felt  a  breath  of  life  rushing 
among  the  stones,  and  lo  !  we  saw  the  stones 
move  at  the  voices  of  them  that  cried,  and  the 
stones  were  alive,  stones  no  more,  but  souls ! 
The  seats  became  tenanted  with  life,  the  pulpit 
with  life ;  the  altar  and  the  priest  became  alive  ! 
Still  more  strange,  the  very  icicles  on  the  corbels 
and  on  the  roof  became  sympathies,  the  roof 
melted,  and,  in  place  of  all,  lo !  living  spiritual 
beings.  Old  things  had  passed  awa}',  and  instead  of 
the  cold  stone  tabernacle,  we  stood  in  the  '*  general 
assembly  and  Church  of  the  first-born,  whose  names 
were  written  in  heaven,"  and  we  beheld  Mount 
Zion  thronged  with  "  the  spirits  of  just  men  made 
perfect."  * 

And,  no  doubt,  a  preacher  may  do  this — has  done 
this — again  and  again,  and  will  do  it  again  and  again, 
when  thought  and  feeling  go  forth  in  search  of 
expression.  Very  beautiful  they  are  when  they  meet, 
those  three  sisters !  Eldest-born,  no  doubt,  is  the  Lady 
of  Feeling, — to  allegorize  something  after  the  manner 
of  De  Quincy  in  Snspiria  de  Profundis, —  the  dark- 
eyed  and  lovely  one,  her  radiant  tresses  and  white 
attire  floating,  as  clouds  float  so  rapidly,  even  when 
they  seem  not  to  move  at  all.  She  loves  solitude, 
this  Lady  of  Feeling  ;  she  delights  to  take  her  own 
course,  and  to  fix  her  eye  on  objects  for  the  pleasure 
her  own  love. 

But  men  have,  somehow,  in  this  age  learned  to 
love  her  younger  sister,  the  Lady  of  Thought,  better 
than    the    elder.      She    seems    more  serious  in    her 

*  See  Scrnwns.     By  Edwin  Paxton  Hood.     1859. 


EXPRESSION,   THOUGHT,  FEELING.        135 


fairness ;  her  tresses  are  bound,  her  movements 
are  slower  and  more  stately,  and  her  eyes  have 
often  a  downward  glance  ;  but  we  have  loved  to 
see  the  two  sisters.  Feeling  and  Thought,  hand  in 
hand  together. 

Singular  how  seldom  the  third  sister  of  the  three, 
the  Lady  of  Expression,  keeps  them  company.      Yet 
she  needs  their  more  matronly  guidance,  too  ;  for,  in 
truth,  she  can  be  wild  and   hoydenish,  and  ever  is  so 
unless  when  the  hand  of  her  elder,  or  the  eye  of  her 
second    sister    is    upon    her.      But  when    the    three 
walk  together,  as  we  have  often  seen  them,  the  Lady 
of  Feeling,  the   Lady  of  Thought,  and   the   Lady  of 
Expression,  it   is   then    we   learn   how    Feeling  can 
subdue  us,  how  Thought  can  lift  us,  and  how  Expres- 
sion  can    penetrate  us,  for  each  sister  subdues  the 
other,  and   each    lends    to  the  grace  of  each.      And 
there  is  no  danger  of  finery  in   the  pulpit  when   the 
preacher  seeks  the  fitting  mould  of  expression   into 
which  to  pour  the  red-hot  metal   of  feeling  and  of 
thought ;  for  there  are  words  which  make  thoughts 
and  emotions  to  shine,  even   like  opals  or  rubies,  in 
some    setting    of  jewelled    expression.      There    are 
certain  words  which,  like  any  precious  stone,  derive 
an    amazing  power  to    delight   from  the  setting   in 
which  they  are  seen.      The  true  man  will  determine 
that  he  will  renounce  all  tinselled  and  theatric  finery, 
but  he  will  not  fling  aside  the  power  of  sustained  and 
rhythmic  utterance  ;  he  will  even  court  and  facilitate 
attention  ;  and  if  broken  and   angular  his  words,  he 
will  have  them  to  stand  out  like  aiguilles,  each  com- 
plete in  itself,  and  reflecting  like  some  Alpine  peak, 
beneath  a  rising  or  a  setting  sun,  some  beautiful  light. 


CHAPTER  V. 

JEREMY  TAYLOR 

USUALLY    CALLED    THE    ENGLISH    CHRYSOSTOM     OF    DIVINES. 

SOME  of  the  closing  words  of  the  preceding 
chapter  may  seem  to  have  an  accent  of 
injustice  towards  this  eminent  occupant  of  the 
Throne  of  Eloquence.  It  cannot  be  out  of  place 
to  devote  some  pages  to  the  consideration  of  the 
life  and  words  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
beloved  prelates  of  the  English  Church  ;  the  more 
necessary,  because  the  severity  of  some  recent 
criticisms  seem  depreciative  of  the  unquestionably 
too  highly  ornamental  brilliancy  of  his  style; — a  style, 
no  doubt,  perfectly  natural  to  him,  but  which  has 
been  regarded  as  savouring  too  much,  frequently, 
of  the  meretricious  and  gaudy.  We  have  been 
led  to  retrace  our  impressions  of  the  character  of 
these  writings  by  some  remarks  in  a  number  of  the 
BibliotJieca  Sacra  by  Dr.  Withington,  of  Massachu- 
setts ; — remarks  we  cannot  but  regard  as  cast  in 
far  too  depreciatory  a  vein.  Dr.  Withington  regards 
this  great  poet,  and  Milton  of  the  pulpit,  as  simply 
"  playing  his  coruscations  like  dissolving  views  before 
his  audience,"  and  as  being  "  so  mindful  of  his  robe, 
that  his  hearers  become  regardless  of  the  form  or 


SOUTH  AN  INSOLENT  BUFFOON.  137 

truth  beneath  it."  The  lovers  of  the  bishop  will 
be  pleased  to  find  that  the  same  disposition  to 
depreciation  extends  to  Thomas  Fuller,  and  to 
George  Herbert.  The  critic  quotes  with  admiration, 
quite  unmingled,  South's  undoubted  characterization 
of  Jeremy  Taylor,  to  which  we  have  already  referred. 
That  rough,  surly,  and  cautelous  renegade  was,  by 
the  primary  temperament  of  his  mind,  and  his 
apparent  utter  want  of  Christian  experience,  unfitted 
to  appreciate  a  spirit  so  tender,  an  intuitional  nature 
so  rich  and  beautiful  as  Taylor's.  Dr.  Withington 
admits  that  there  was  a  malicious  skill  in  South's 
criticism,  in  which  he  separates  and  isolates  expres- 
sions ;  it  might  be  added  that  everything  that 
South  touched  for  the  purpose  of  criticising  it 
was  touched  with  the  spirit  of  a  coarse  ribald.  To 
expect  a  judicious  opinion  on  such  matters  from 
such  a  man  would  be  as  wise  as  to  expect  a  navvy 
to  do  the  work  of  an  angel.  The  passage  to  which 
Dr.  Withington  alludes  is  in  South's  eleventh  sermon, 
in  the  fifth  volume,  and  is  that  which  we  have 
already  quoted.*  It  must  be  admitted  the  criticism 
was  very  clever,  and  as  unrighteous  as  it  was 
clever;  and  it  abates  our  surprise  at  the  insolent 
buffoonery  with  which  South  regaled  his  auditors 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  when  he  had  to  traduce 
Cromwell, — to  whom,  when  at  college,  he  had  in- 
scribed a  Latin  eulogy — or  to  traduce  the  Puritans, 
to  whom  he  seems  at  one  time  to  have  belonsfed — 
when  we  find  a  dignitary  of  his  own  Church,  who 
had  lived  a  martyr  to  his  convictions,  held  up  to 
the  same   ridicule. 

*  See  page  132. 


138  JEREAiY  TAYLOR. 

We  have  not  purposed  narrating  at  any  length 
the  circumstances  of  the  life  of  Jeremy  Taylor  ; 
little  more  is  known  of  it  than  the  more  marked 
ways  along  which  he  travelled  ;  it  could,  however, 
have  been  by  no  means  devoid  of  interest.  Cam- 
bridge, more  remarkable  as  being  the  nurse  than 
the  mother  of  great  men,  was  his  birthplace,  where 
his  father  appears  to  have  followed  the  humble 
occupation  of  a  barber.  Lowly,  however,  as  was 
his  immediate  origin,  he  derives  his  ancestry  from 
Dr.  Rowland  Taylor,  one  of  the  bright  ornaments  of 
the  Reformation,  the  martyr  of  Hadleigh,  in  Suffolk. 

He  was  born  in  161 3;  his  education  began 
early,  for  at  the  age  of  three  he  was  sent  to 
the  free  school  in  his  native  town,  and  at  the 
age  of  thirteen  he  was  admitted  a  sizar  of  Caius 
College ;  in  his  eighteenth  year  he  was  admitted 
Master  of  Arts,  and  to  such  an  extent  had  he 
carried  his  theological  studies,  that  he  was  thought 
worthy  of  admission  into  holy  orders  before  he 
attained  the  age  of  twenty-one,  when  he  was  called 
to  lecture  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  where  he  attracted 
the  attention  of  Archbishop  Laud,  who  preferred 
him  to  a  fellowship  of  the  University  of  Oxford  ; 
he  also  became  chaplain  to  Laud,  chaplain  to  the 
king,  and  rector  of  Uppingham,  in  Rutlandshire, 
which  was  a  very  small  village.  While  here  he 
exposed  himself  to  the  suspicion  of  attachment  to 
the  Church  of  Rome ;  there  were  many  reasons 
which  made  this  not  improbable  ;  not  merely  from 
his  relation  to  Laud,  and  the  favours  he  had  received 
from  the  hands  of  that  man,  but  from  his  intimacy 
with  a  Franciscan   friar,  who  had  sunk  his  English 


LIFE  AT  UPPINGHAM.  139 


name  in  that  of  Fra.  St.  Clara.  There  seems,  how- 
ever, to  have  been  no  foundation  for  the  suspicion  ; 
his  catholic,  amiable,  and,  perhaps,  too  sensuous 
imagination  and  fancy  found,  no  doubt,  many 
sympathetic  attractions  in  the  Romish  Church  ; 
but  it  was  at  this  very  period  of  his  life  that  he 
spoke  of  Romanists  as  those  who  "  serve  the  Pope 
in  all  things,  and  Jesus  Christ  in  some."  Coleridge 
thought  that  Taylor,  in  some  form  or  other,  believed 
in  purgatory  ;  but  with  bitter  sarcasm  he  has  ex- 
pressed his  sense  of  that  doctrine  when  he  says,  "  A 
Romanist  may  come  out  of  purgatory  upon  reason- 
able terms,  in  case  he  should  think  fit  to  go  thither." 
Two  years  after  his  presentation  to  Uppingham, 
he  married  Phoebe  Langdale.  No  information  has 
reached  us  concerning  the  family  of  his  wife. 
Amidst  the  plain  rural  scenes  of  his  village  he 
passed  a  {&\n  years  ;  but  it  was  at  the  period  when 
all  things  in  England  were  becoming  unhinged. 
Darkness  was  gathering  round  the  country  parsonage; 
his  great  patron,  Laud,  was  hnpeached,  imprisoned, 
and  beheaded  ;  and  the  first  effort  of  Taylor's  pen 
was  "  A  Plea  for  Episcopacy."  The  same  year  the 
king  raised  his  standard  at  Nottingham,  and  Taylor, 
as  the  king's  most  beloved  chaplain,  joined  the 
royal  army.  There  were  other  reasons  which  pushed 
him  from  his  country  seclusion.  In  the  early  part 
of  the  year  he  lost  his  youngest  child,  whose 
mother  soon  followed.  The  rector,  among  his  last 
registrations,  placed  the  name  of  his  child  and  his 
wife.  As  we  have  seen,  he  followed  with  the  army, 
and  a  parliamentary  resolution  sequestrating  his 
village,  rendered  his  return  as  its  minister  impossible. 


140  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

To  a  mind  like  that  of  Taylor  those  five  years  of 
retirement  in  pastoral  life  may  be  conceived  of  as 
having  been  very  precious  ;  he  was  a  young  man, 
and,  in  spite  of  his  obscure  birth,  he  had  touched  at 
once  almost  the  extreme  prospect  of  success  and  pros- 
perity;  married  life  opening  to  him  in  the  seclusion  of 
a  country  village  ;  his  name  known,  and  his  character 
appreciated  by  the  king;  his  magnificent  genius  pre- 
paring itself  for  its  glowing  and  glorious  flight  of 
power  ; — suddenly  all  was  eclipsed  :  his  wife  and 
child  in  the  grave  ;  his  first  benefactor  led  to  the 
block  ;  himself  an  outcast  from  his  village,  waiting 
for  a  few  brief  months  on  the  footsteps  of  his  sove- 
reign, who  was  soon  as  helpless  as  his  chaplain.  Mr. 
Willmott,  his  latest  and  most  popular  biographer, 
has  done  well  to  notice  the  frequent  use  Taylor 
makes  of  the  stirring  life  of  the  camp  in  his  eloquent 
writings.  The  men  of  that  time  whose  words  were 
most  teaching,  frequently  studied  in  such  a  school. 
The  witty  Fuller  picked  up  his  stories  and  quaintness 
as  he  followed  in  the  rear  of  a  marching  regiment; 
Pearson  was  chaplain  to  the  king's  troops  at  Exeter; 
Chillingworth  acted  as  engineer  at  the  siege  of 
Gloucester  ;  even  Barrow  knew  what  it  was  to  stand 
to  his  gun  ;  and  we  know  how  Baxter  hovered  for  a 
long  season  with  the  armies  of  the  Parliament  in  many 
parts  of  England.  We  cannot  follow  the  footsteps 
of  Taylor,  but  it  is  to  be  believed  that  he  was  on 
several  of  these  well-fought  fields,  where  the  strength 
of  Roundhead  and  Cavalier  came  into  rude  collision. 

Mr.  Willmott  says  : — 

"But  I  am  not  aware  that  any  of  his  biographers  or 
critics  have  pointed  out  the  vividness  and  number  of  his 


HIS  "APPLES  OF  SODOMr  141 

martial  images.  Keble  proves  the  military  experience  of 
Homer  from  the  allusions  to  arms  and  combats ;  and  the 
reader  of  Taylor's  sermons  often  finds  himself  hurried  into 
the  tumult  of  the  camp,  or  the  terrors  of  the  conflict,  by 
the  same  freshness  and  truth  of  description,  A  striking 
example  occurs  in  his  discourse  entitled, '  Apples  of  Sodom,' 
where  ,he  represent^  .the  sinner  overcome  by  the  violence 
of  a  strong  temptation,  and  awaking,  when  the  fever  subsides, 
to  the  full  horror  and  peril  of  his  condition.  '  But  so  have 
I  known  a  bolder  trooper  fight  in  the  confusion  of  a  battle, 
and,  being  warm  with  heat  and  rage,  receive  from  the  sword 
of  his  enemy  wounds  open  like  a  grave ;  but  he  felt  them 
not ;  and  when,  by  the  streams  of  blood,  he  found  himself 
marked  for  pain,  he  refused  to  consider  then  what  he  was 
to  feel  to-morrow ;  but  when  his  rage  hath  cooled  into  the 
temper  of  a  man,  and  clammy  moisture  hath  checked  the 
fiery  emission  of  spirits,  he  wonders  at  his  own  boldness, 
and  blames  his  fate,  and  needs  a  mighty  patience  to  bear 
his  great  calamity.' 

"The  wounded  trooper  carries  us  back  to  Naseby,  or 
Marston-Moor.  The  following  sketch  of  a  humbler  hero 
bears  indications  of  having  been  painted  from  life  : — 

"  *  And  what  can  we  complain  of  the  weakness  of  our 
strength,  or  the  pressure  of  disease,  when  we  see  a  poor 
soldier  stand  in  a  breach,  almost  starved  with  cold  and 
hunger,  and  his  cold  apt  to  be  relieved  only  by  the  heats 
of  anger,  a  fever,  or  a  fired  musket,  and  his  hunger  slacked 
by  a  greater  pain  or  a  huge  fear?  This  man  shall  stand 
in  his  arms  and  wounds,  pale  and  faint,  weary  and  watchful ; 
and  at  night  shall  have  a  bullet  pulled  out  of  his  flesh,  and 
shivers  from  his  bones,  and  endure  his  mouth  to  be  sewed 
up  from  a  violent  rent  to  its  own  dimensions.' " 

He  is  reported  to  have  been  a  spectator  of  the 
fight  at  Newbury,  when,  through  the  long  autumn 
day,  from  sunrise  until  the  shadows  of  twilight  fell, 


142  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 


the  conflict  lasted,  ending  in  the  final  defeat  of  the 
king  ;  the  cause  was  irretrievably  lost.  He  at- 
tempted to  cheer  the  king  as  the  last  dark  hours 
came  round  him;  in  token  of  his  regard,  the  king 
gave  him  his  watch  and  a  {^\n  pearls  and  rubies, 
which  had  ornamented  the  ebony  case  in  which 
he  kept  his   Bible. 

Taylor's  memorable  retreat  into  Wales  is  well 
known  ;  his  temporary  imprisonment  there,  and 
his  second  marriage  with  Joanna  Bridges,  a  lady 
to  whom  he  had  formed  an  attachment  when 
with  the  king  in  Wales  the  year  before.  She  is 
said  to  have  been  the  daughter  of  Charles  I.,  and 
to  have  presented  a  striking  likeness  to  the  well- 
known  features  Vandyke  has  preserved  on  the 
canvas.  His  wife  is  supposed  to  have  possessed 
considerable  property  in  Llangadock,  a  small  town 
in  the  north-east  part  of  Carmarthenshire.  The 
name  of  her  estate  was  Mandinnam,  and  the  loveli- 
ness of  the  scenery  around  must  have  been  very 
soothing  and  inspiring  to  the  heart  of  the  young 
man,  already  tolerably  bruised  and  broken,  in  his 
worldly  conflicts  and  circumstances.  It  is  probable, 
however,  that  the  estate  and  wealth  of  his  wife  were 
greatly  reduced  by  the  exactions  inevitable  to  those 
troubled  times.  Her  husband  would  not  otherwise 
have  condescended,  from  his  royal  and  courtly 
companionships,  to  the  toil  of  keeping  a  village 
school.  With  him  in  the  work,  however,  were  associ- 
ated two  other  men,  as  his  assistants,  who  became 
Church  dignitaries:  William  Nicholson,  afterwards 
Bishop  of  Gloucester,  and  William  Wyatt,  after- 
wards a  prebendary  of  Lincoln. 


LIFE  AND    WORK  IN  WALES.  143 


Llanfihangel  Aberbythych  seems  to  have  been 
the  village  in  which  Taylor  exercised  his  educational 
gifts ;  here,  in  poverty  and  tribulation,  without 
books  or  leisure,  he  received  considerable  kindness 
from  Lord  Hatton ;  and  here  he  wrote,  and  to  him 
dedicated,  the  work  with  which  his  name  is  most 
indissolubly  associated,  his  celebrated  "  Plea  for  the 
Liberty   of  Prophesying." 

In  his  dedication  of  this  work  to  his  friend,  Lord 
Hatton,  he  says  : — 

"  My  Lord, — In  this  great  storm  which  hath  dashed  the 
vessel  of  the  church  all  in  pieces,  I  have  been  cast  upon  the 
coast  of  Wales,  and  in  a  little  boat  thought  to  have  enjoyed 
that  rest  and  quietness  which  in  England,  in  a  greater,  I  could 
not  hope  for.  Here  I  cast  anchor,  and  thinking  to  ride 
safely,  the  storm  followed  me  with  so  impetuous  violence, 
that  it  broke  a  cable,  and  I  lost  my  anchor ;  and  here  again 
I  was  exposed  to  the  mercy  of  the  sea,  and  the  gentleness 
of  an  element  that  could  neither  distinguish  things  nor 
persons.  And  but  that  He  who  stilleth  the  raging  of  the 
sea,  and  the  noise  of  His  waves,  and  the  madness  of  His 
people,  had  provided  a  plank  for  me,  I  had  been  lost  to 
all  the  opportunities  of  content  or  study.  But  I  know  not 
whether  I  have  been  more  preserved  by  the  courtesies  of 
my  friends,  or  the  gentleness  and  mercies  of  a  noble  enemy." 

,  It  is  an  honourable  thing  to  the  English  Church 
that  such  a  voice  should  have  risen  from  her  heart, 
— pity  that  it  came  not  in  a  period  of  prosperity. 
We  fear  there  is  seme  reason  to  think  that  Taylor 
was  somewhat  ashamed  of  his  noblest  work  in  later 
days,  when  the  sun  came  again  from  behind  the 
clouds.  Bishop  Heber  labours  to  set  aside  this 
suspicion,   first   distinctly   expressed,  we  believe,  by 


144  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

Mr.  Orme  in  his  life  of  Baxter  ;  but  we  have  traced 
some  hints  that,  "  finding,  after  he  became  Bishop  of 
Dromore,  a  very  improper  use  had  been  made  of  his 
famous  book,  he  sent  his  chaplain  over  from  Ireland 
to  buy  up  all  the  copies  he  could  find,  and  having 
brought  them  to  Dromore,  the  Bishop  set  a  day 
apart  for  fasting  and  praying,  and  then  in  the  even- 
ing caused  a  fire  to  be  made  in  his  courtyard,  and 
burned  these  books."  We  are  indebted  for  this  sus- 
picion to  that  eminent  and  excellent  scholar.  Dr.  Lort* 
To  turn  to  more  agreeable  impressions,  however, 
Taylor,  at  Golden  Grove,  has  been  frequently 
a  favourite  object  of  pleasant  thought.  The  scenery 
around  him  was,  what  it  still  is,  of  the  most 
glorious  description — streams,  trees,  and  ruined 
castles,  oaks  of  a  long  antiquity,  pastoral  and 
baronial  life.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  scenery,  which 
Dyer — one  of  the  greatest  of  our  almost  forgotten 
poets,  and  a  native  of  the  scenes  he  so  beautifully 
describes,  where  he  was  born  not  very  long  after 
Taylor's  residence — has  sketched  with  so  charming 
a  pencil : — 

"  Now,  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow, 
What  a  landskip  lies  below  ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapours  intervene, 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  nature  show. 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow  ! 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 
Proudly  towering  in  the  skies  ! 


*  Nicholl's  "Literary  History,"  vol.  vii. 


HIS  TRIALS.  1,45 


Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires  I 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads  I 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks ! 

Below  me  trees  unnumber'd  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue. 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew. 
The  slender  fir,  that  taper  grows, 
The  sturdy  oak,  with  broad-spread  boughs; 
And,  beyond  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love  1 
Gaudy  as  the  op'ning  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn. 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charn  s  the  wandering  eye! 
Deep  are  his  teet  in  Towy's  flood, 
His  sides  are  cloth'd  with  waving  wood. 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below ; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
In  mutual  dependence  find." 

Surely,  a  scene  more  in  harmony  with  his  richly 
imaginative  mind,  ever  seeking  natural  suggestions, 
the  poet-preacher  could  not  have  found,  nor  can 
the  reader  conceive.  The  trials  of  Taylor  were  no 
doubt  many,  but  his  exile  and  seclusion  suggest  the 
recollection  of  one,  who  transcended  him  in  the  sense, 
vehemence,  and  magnificence  of  his  prose.  John 
Milton,  when  dangers  compassed  him  around,  found 
a  retreat  in  a  poor  cottage,  in  Wilderness  Row,  in 
Aldersgate  Street,  with  no  courtly  patrons,  and  the 
sense  of  sight  shut  up  from  all  possibility  of  familiar- 

10 


146  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

ity  with  sweet  scenes.  Spite  of  the  adversities  strewn 
so  plentifully  around  him,  it  may  be  believed  that 
the  years  Taylor  spent  at  Golden  Grove  were  among 
the  happiest  of  his  life  ;  his  writings  of  that  period 
abound  in  divine  pastorals  ;  beautiful  idyllic  pictures, 
which  a  painter  has  only  to  transfer  to  the  canvas 
to  find  how  Claude-like  they  are.  Many  pages  and 
passages  of  his  discourses  have  all  the  rich  rural 
beauty  of  "  II  Penseroso  "  and  "  L'Allegro."  So  he 
passed  his  life  of  contemplation,  his  genius  expand- 
ing into  full  beauty  and  flower. 

At  Golden  Grove  he  composed  his  "  Holy  Living 
and  Dying,"  and  his  "  Life  of  Christ ; "  and  in  its 
village  church,  or  in  the  parlour  of  Lord  Carbery, 
he  preached  those  remarkable  discourses,  which,  in 
their  own  line,  are  worthy  of  a  place  by  the  side 
of  the  greatest  masters  of  sacred  eloquence.  For 
thousands  of  people,  for  crowded  churches  in  large 
cities,  these  sermons  seem  quite  unfitted,  and,  as 
preached  in  a  country  church  in  an  ignorant  age, 
their  overflowing,  redundant,  frequently  most  curious 
scholarship,  their  refined  depth  of  feeling,  their 
overburdened  foliage  of  imagination — all  seem  to 
charge  them  with  affectation,  when  we  think  of  them 
as  preached  to  a  congregation  of  rustics ;  but  it 
must  be  remembered  these  formed  but  an  incon- 
siderable number  of  his  audience,  and,  while  for 
these  there  was  much  that  was  more  pertinent  and 
practical,  he  had  round  about  him  as  pleasant  a 
band  of  affectionate  and  cultivated  auditors  as  ever 
claimed  and  cheered  the  heart  of  a  preacher.  It  may 
be  imagined  that  to  the  then  remote  seclusion  of 
Llanfihangel  Aberbythych,  and  its  church  of  Golden 


HIS  STYLE. 


M7 


Grove,  many  a  fainting  royalist  or  outcast  cavalier 
would  find  his  way.     The  castle  of  the  noble  owner 
seems  to  have  been  open  to  such  ;  and,  however  fre- 
quently uncongenial  with  the  roystering  spirit  of  the 
general  cavalier  army  Taylor's  divine  contemplations 
might  be,   there  can   be  no  doubt  that   to  most  of 
those  who  found  a  shelter  in  Lord  Carbery's  mansion 
they  would    breathe  a  sustaining  and    soothing  in- 
fluence.      Through    all    those    sermons,    in    spite   of 
the  interminable  quotations   from   Latin  and   Greek 
authors,  from  Jewish  Talmuds  and  Spanish  proverbs, 
and  every  kind  of  rare  and  admirable  learning,  there 
flows  a  sustained  yet  pensive  volume  of  meditative 
power.      It   seems    that  it  must   be  every  way  im- 
possible  to    preach    such   sermons    as    those   of  the 
Golden  Grove  nowadays  ;  the  sentences  so  long  and 
stately,  and   these  again,  like  rivulets  to  some  large 
river,     pouring    into     the    copious    and     protracted 
paragraph.      Keble     has     instituted     a     comparison 
between  the   sentences  of  Burke  and  Taylor,  giving 
to  the  statesman  the  palm  of  the  rhetorician,  to  the 
preacher  the  palm  of  the  poet,  and,  in  the  main,  the 
distinction    is    no    doubt   a   very   correct  one.      But 
Taylor's  imagery  very  frequently  flows  out  into  as 
rich  a  rhetoric  as   Burke's,  while  the  orator  of  the 
pulpit  and  of  the   parliament   are  alike  in  this,  that, 
frequently,  by  the  ample  foliage  of  illustration,  they 
do   conceal  the   main   stem   and   topic  of  discourse. 
But  by  remarks  like  these  we  anticipate  those  we 
intended  to  reserve  for  some  later  page  of  our  chapter. 
Only,   we  may    say    that,   some  years   since,   in   the 
spirit  of  the  shrine-lover,  we  made  a    pilgrimage  to 
Golden  Grove  in  search  of  memories  of  Taylor,'but 


148  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

we  found  a  new  little  church  on  the  spot  ;  inquiring 
for  Taylor's  pulpit,  we  found  it  had  been  burned  as 
firewood  ;  and  tracing  our  way  down  to  the  avenue 
which  had  been  known  as  Taylor's  walk,  we  found 
the  plough  had  passed  over,  and  obliterated  all 
traces  of  it. 

In  1650,  Taylor  lost  his  gentle  and  accomplished 
friend,  the  Countess  of  Carbery.  Shortly  after. 
Golden  Grove  was  besieged  by  Cromwell  with  a 
troop  of  horse.  The  earl,  whom  Cromwell  had  in- 
tended to  capture,  escaped  to  a  farmhouse  amongst 
the  hills,  and  soon  we  hear  of  Jeremy  Taylor  in 
prison  again.  His  imprisonment,  however,  seems  in 
some  way  to  have  made  John  Evelyn  acquainted 
with  him, — Evelyn,  that  beautiful  type  of  all  that 
we  conceive  in  the  gentleman  of  the  old  school, 
adorned  by  the  graces  of  courtliness,  and  the  fulness 
of  scholarship,  the  wisdom  of  travel,  and  acquaintance 
with  mankind.  Between  Evelyn  and  Taylor  an 
intimacy  began,  and  continued  through  the  years 
of  Taylor's  adversity ;  not  broken,  however,  in  the  years 
of  prosperity,  though  rendered  less  marked  by  the 
active  duties  and  distant  residence  of  the  bishop. 
Say's  Court,  at  Deptford,  the  beautiful  home  of 
Evelyn,  was  the  frequent  haunt  of  the  more  truly 
illustrious  men  of  the  time.  We  first  meet  Taylor 
there,  with  Wilkins,  Berkeley,  and  Boyle.  The 
journal  of  John  Evelyn  presents  to  us  not  only 
many  letters,  exhibiting  the  mutual  estimation  of  the 
friends,  but  records  frequent  occasions  on  which 
Evelyn  listened  with  pleasure  to  the  ministrations 
of  Taylor  ;  those  ministrations  evidently  were  ot 
a  comparatively  private  character.      Evelyn  appears 


LOSS  OF  children:  149 

to  have  settled  upon  his  friend  some  small  annuity 
placing  him  above  want,  which,  like  an  armed 
man,  had  seized  him,  until  the  favourable  days  for 
his  party  came  round  again. 

Not  that  he  continued  altogether  in  London  ;  we 
find  him  in  Wales,  but  there  again  only  in  a  sorrowful 
home.  If  political  invaders  had  passed  away,  a  still 
more  relentless  one  had  entered.  He  writes  to  Evelyn, 
"We  are  in  some  little  disorder  by  reason  of  the  death 
of  a  little  child — a  little  boy  that  lately  made  us  very 
glad — but  now  rejoices  in  his  little  orb,  while  we 
think,  and  sigh,  and  long  to  be  as  safe  as  he  is." 
And  not  long  after,  two  other  children  were  taken 
from  him  ;  and  we  have  another  tender  and  mourn- 
ful letter  ;  mournful  and  tender,  as  in  his  own  case, 
accents  of  the  sweetest  pathos  he  addressed  in  a  letter 
shortly  after  to  Evelyn,  when  he,  in  turn,  was 
called  to  sorrow  over  a  second  son,  of  whom  Taylor 
speaks  as  "  that  pretty  person,  your  strangely 
hopeful  boy."  The  intercourse  between  these  two 
in  these  matters  is  as  pathetic  as  anything  we  know 
in  our  literature  ;  poor  Evelyn's  heart  breaks  out  in 
one  of  the  tenderest  ejaculations  of  grief  as  he  tells 
how  he  had  coffined  the  little  boy  in  lead,  and 
temporarily  placed  it  in  Deptford  church — it  must 
have  been  the  Church  of  Old  St.  Nicholas — till  it 
should  be  removed  with  his  own  body  to  his  family 
resting-place — "  When  I  lay  my  bones,  and  mingle 
my  dust  with  my  fathers',  if  God  be  gracious  to  me 
and  make  me  as  fit  for  Him  as  this 'blessed  child 
was ;  here  ends  the  joy  of  my  life."  From  this 
grief  his  friend  strove  to  wake  him,  calling  on  him 
to    consider  "  that  of  the  bravest  men   in  the  world 


150  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

we  find  in  seldomest  stories  of  their  children, 
and  tlie  apostles  had  none,  and  thousands  of  the 
worthiest  persons  that  sound  most  in  story  died 
childless  ;  you  will  find  it  as  a  rare  act  of  Providence 
so  to  impose  upon  worthy  men  a  necessity  of 
perpetuating  their  names  by  worthy  actions  and 
discourses,  governments  and  reasonings."  And  these 
little  glimpses  of  fathers'  hearts  in  those  tough  times 
are  very  beautiful  and  pleasant  ;  fathers,  it  is  to  be 
supposed,  were  very  much  the  same  human  affairs 
then  as  now,  and  little  things  with  prescient  little 
ways,  and  little  waxen  fingers  brought  high-born 
gentlemen  and  stately  talkers  down  to  their  humanity. 
Poor  Taylor,  in  a  later  period  oT  his  life,  when  a 
member  of  the  Privy  Council,  high  in  favour  at 
court,  with  a  mitre  on  his  head,  and  the  power  of 
commanding  much  for  his  sons,  no  doubt  thought  of 
them  with  a  rent  heart  and  tearful  eyes,  and  wished 
that  each  had  found  an  infant's  grave  in  the  church- 
yard of  Uppingham,  or  amidst  the  woods  of  Golden 
Grove. 

Taylor's  life  was  that  of  a  wanderer ;  we  find 
him  next  occupying  the  post  of  weekly  lecturer 
or  preacher  to  a  small  congregation  of  loyalists  in 
the  half-ruined  church  of  Kilulta,  near  Lisburn,  in 
Ireland.  Bishop  Heber  gives  a  glowing  description 
of  this  new  home,  situated  on  the  borders  of  the 
great  Lough  Neagh,  with  its  romantic  islets,  to  some 
of  which,  it  was  said,  he  was  wont  to  retire  to 
indulge  his  characteristic  comtemplations,  and,  amidst 
their  repose  and  beauty,  to  revolve  the  casuistries  of 
his  great  work,  the  "  Ductor  Dubitantium."  In  his 
letters  to  Say's  Court,  he  speaks  with  gratitude  and 


THE  RESTORATION.  151 


affection  of  his  retirement,  blessing  the  Providence 
which  had  permitted  him  so  pleasant  a  retreat.  The 
thing  from  which  he  seems  to  have  suffered  most,  in 
so  distant  an  isolation,  was  the  scholar's  perpetual 
anxiety.  "  What  good  books  are  lately  published  ?  " 
says  he.  "  What  learned  men  abroad,  and  at  home, 
beg-in  anew  to  fill  the  mouth  of  fame  in  the  places  of 
the  dead  Salmasius,  Vossius,  Mocelin,  Sismond, 
Rigaltius,  Descartes,  Galileo,  Peiresk,  Petavius,  and 
the  excellent  persons  of  yesterday  t  " 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  dwell  upon  the  circum- 
stances of  the  Restoration  ;  it  came,  and,  as  was 
natural,  it  brought  a  change  in  the  domestic 
circumstances  of  Jeremy  Taylor  ;  faithful  to  the 
principles  of  the  monarchy,  honoured  with  the  friend- 
ship of  Charles  I.,  having  been  a  severe  sufferer  for 
his  principles,  it  might  have  been  supposed  that  one 
whose  genius,  too,  was  of  the  most  brilliant  order, 
and  his  piety  and  purity  equal  to  his  genius,  would 
have  found  promotion  to  a  diocese  in  his  own 
country  ;  but  it  is  probable  that  Charles  II.  had  too 
much  delight  in  the  wit  of  Buckingham,  Etheridge, 
and  Sedley,  to  desire  the  presence  in  his  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  a  man  like  Taylor  ;  and  if  he  were 
aware,  as  is  most  probable,  of  his  connection  with 
him  by  the  marriage  with  his  natural  sister,  he  might 
dread  the  pretext  for  a  familiarity  in  the  rebuke  of 
his  vices,  which,  perhaps,  Taylor  might  not  be  indis- 
posed to  use,  however  Charles  might  be  indisposed 
to  listen  ;  he  was,  therefore,  raised  to  the  dignity  and 
office  of  Bishop  of  Down  and  Connor,  to  which  was 
added  that  of  Dromore.  The  wealth  of  his  wife,  we 
may  suppose,  returned  to  them,  since  we  read  not 


152  JEREMY  TA  YLOR. 

merely  of  exalted  position,  but  of  extensive  and  muni- 
ficent benevolences.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  that  he 
who  wrote  the  "  Holy  Living  "  in  the  dark  hours  of  his 
adversity,  attempted  to  realize  his  ideal  in  his  days 
of  prosperity.  "  The  way  to  judge  of  religion,"  he 
says,  "  is  by  doing  of  our  duty,  and  theology  is 
rather  a  Divine  life  than  Divine  knowledge." 
Whether  the  sentence  might  not  have  been  more 
true  had  he  substituted  the  word  piety  or  religion  for 
theology,  we  will  not  dispute  ;  it  is  enough  for  us 
that  he  sought  to  fulfil  in  his  own  life  his  axiom. 

Before  he  went  his  way  through  the  house  of 
mourning  to  the  grave,  which  came  about,  as  we 
should  say,  rather  prematurely,  his  household  was 
relieved  by  what  seems  to  us,  after  so  sombre  a  life, 
some  humorous  touches.  The  household  of  Jeremy 
Taylor  has  a  reputation,  like  that  of  the  Wesley 
family,  in  the  history  of  ghosts  ;  and  Glanvill,  in 
his  "  Sadducismus  Triumphatus,"  has  introduced  a 
pair  of  stories  which  Heber  has  thought  fit  to  tell  in 
his  life.  They  are  not,  however,  very  pertinent  to 
the  purpose  of  our  present  pages.  His  chequered 
and  stormy  life  came  to  a  close  in  August,  1667,  at 
the  comparatively  early  age  of  fifty-five  ;  his  body 
was  interred  in  the  choir  of  the  church  of  Dromore, 
and  no  one  can  be  surprised  at  the  affectionate 
indignation  with  which  Bishop  Heber  mentions  the 
disturbing  of  his  bones  a  century  afterwards,  with 
those  of  his  friend  Bishop  Rust,  to  make  room  for 
another  bishop.  If  ever  dust  were  sacred,  it  might 
be  supposed  that  character  would  have  attached  to 
the  dust  of  Jeremy  Taylor.  For  a  long  time  no 
memorial  marked  the  place  of  his  remains.      Bishop 


HE  DIES  CHILDLESS.  153 

Mant  and  his  clergy  erected  appropriately  a  white 
marble  tablet  in  the  cathedral  church  of  Lisburn  ; 
a  rich  mausoleum  would  have  been  altogether  out  of 
keeping  with  his  dust  who,  among  his  last  written 
words,  said,  "  Nor  do  I  desire  a  stately  sepulchre,  a 
beautiful  urn,  or  that  my  name  and  actions  should 
be  engraven  in  marble."  He  had  many  children, 
several  of  whom  were  sons,  but  he  left  his  name  to 
no  successor  ;  he,  who,  with  such  a  prescient  tender- 
ness, had  expressed  the  pathos  of  his  soul  in  con- 
gratulations to  parents  on  the  early  deaths  of  their 
offspring,  who  had  taught  parents  to  pray,  in  his 
beautiful  prayers  appended  to  "  Holy  Living,"  that 
their  "  children  may  never  live  vicious  lives  nor  die 
violent,  nor  untimely  deaths,"  lived  to  hear  of  the 
death  of  his  own  son,  an  officer  in  the  army,  in  a 
duel  with  an  officer  of  the  same  regiment  ;  his  only 
surviving  son,  destined  for  the  service  of  the  Church, 
and  educated  by  his  father  with  that  view,  turned 
aside  to  the  wild  dissipations  of  Charles's  court  ; 
from  dissipation  he  sunk  into  consumption,  and  died 
just  before  his  father,  who,  however,  did  not  live  to 
hear  of  the  extinction  of  the  family  name. 

Jeremy  Taylor  is  a  name  so  well  known,  and 
his  writings  are  so  universal  a  furniture  of  the  library 
shelf,  that  it  may  seem  idle  to  remark  upon  his 
genius,  excepting  that,  from  year  to  year,  we  do 
need  to  renew  and  to  revise  our  criticisms  upon,  and 
our  admiration  of  those  men,  who  stand  like  the 
tall  cedars  on  the  Lebanon  mountains  of  poetry  and 
thought.  Taylor's  writings  have  been  described  as 
the  productions  of  a  vast,  undisciplined  genius  ; 
they  have  been  likened  to  the  fantastic  architecture 


154  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

of  his  times,  the  age  of  vast  chambers,  huge  oriel 
windows,  spacious  fireplaces,  and  quaint,  weird,  and 
uncouth  devices,  and,  in  short,  of  a  thousand  shape- 
lessnesses  rising  into  an  imposing  and  charming 
shapeliness.  It  seems  very  certain  that  he  was 
pre-eminently  a  poet  amongst  preachers.  This 
apology  and  allowance  must  be  made  for  him,  that 
no  other  pulpit  name  is  associated  with  so  rich  and 
rare  a  poetic  exuberance.  The  epithet  of  the  modern, 
or  the  English  Chrysostom  seems  scarcely  a  fitting 
one  ;  Chrysostom  was  essentially  an  orator.  We 
do  not  think  of  Jeremy  Taylor  as  an  orator.  We 
have  already  said,  we  cannot  conceive  those  sermons 
preached  to  vast  audiences  ;  he  who  cannot  preach 
to  vast  audiences  is  no  orator  ;  he  may  be  a 
most  delightful  preacher  with  the  audience  fit 
and  few,  and  the  charm  of  cryptic  thought  and 
feeling  ;  and  this  is  the  attraction  and  the  pleasure 
of  the  devotions  and  contemplations  of  Jeremy 
Taylor.  South,  who  satirized  his  artificiality,  had 
a  million-fold  his  art  ;  he  was  a  great  master 
of  clap-trap,  and  had  no  objection  to  pulpit  slang. 
Taylor  had  artifices,  but  he  was  innocent  of  them  ; 
they  belonged  to  the  mannerism  of  his  own  mind  ; 
he  unconsciously  yielded  himself  to  them,  for  they 
were  charming  to  him  ;  he  never  thought  of  whist- 
ling that  the  multitude  might  be  captivated  and 
surprised.  If  we  could  make  a  poet  by  mingling 
the  genius  of  Spenser  and  George  Herbert,  and  if 
we  could  beat  that  genius  out  into  prose  instead 
of  verse,  some  such  a  being  as  Jeremy  Taylor,  we 
think,  would  be  the  result.  He  had  much  of  the 
spiritual  quaintness  of  the  latter,  but  it  was  associated 


HIS  INTOLERABLE  LEARNING  155 

with  the  long-drawn  poetic  allegorizing  of  the  former. 
Yet,  without  a  doubt,  his  learning  sometimes  be- 
comes intolerable  ;  he  crowds  allusion  upon  allusion 
till  sometimes  the  purpose  of  the  allusion  is  lost 
in  the  curiosity  of  the  quotation.  Here  is  an  instance 
from  the  "  Holy  Living  and  Dying  "  : — 

"  Let  no  man  appropriate  to  his  own  use  what  God  by 
a  special  mercy,  or  the  republic,  hath  made  common ; 
for  that  is  both  against  justice  and  charity  too.  And  by 
miraculous  accidents  God  hath  declared  His  displeasure 
against  such  enclosure :  when  the  kings  of  Naples  enclosed 
the  gardens  of  CEnotria  where  the  best  manna  of  Calabria 
descends,  that  no  man  might  gather  it  without  paying  tribute, 
the  manna  ceased  till  the  tribute  was  taken  off,  and  then 
it  came  again ;  and  so  when  after  the  third  trial  the  princes 
found  they  could  not  have  that  in  proper  which  God  made 
to  be  common,  they  left  it  as  free  as  God  gave  it.  The  like 
happened  in  Epire ;  when  Lysimachus  laid  an  impost  upon 
the  Tragasean  salt,  it  vanished,  till  Lysimachus  left  it  public. 
And  when  the  procurators  of  King  Antigonus  imposed  a 
rate  upon  the  sick  people  that  came  to  Edepsum  to  drink  the 
waters  which  were  lately  sprung,  and  were  very  healthful, 
instantly  the  waters  dried  up,  and  the  hope  of  gain  perished." 

This  is  an  illustration,  but  it  is  by  no  means  an 
exceptional  one,  and  we  can  well  conceive  how 
common  sense  would  start  from  her  propriety  if, 
in  modern  days,  Lysimachus  and  Tragasean  salt, 
and  King  Antigonus  and  Edepsum,  Naples,  Q^notria, 
and  Calabria  were  all  laid  under  contribution  to 
teach  so  simple  a  lesson.  If  in  a  glance  our 
readers  would  see  what  a  vast  repository  the  man's 
mind  was,  let  him  turn  to  the  first  volume  of  Heber's 
edition  of  his  works,  and  run  his  eye  over  the  index 


156  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

of  matters  touched  upon  in  the  volumes  ;  they 
remind  us  of  that  vast  receptacle  of  curious  learning 
in  our  times,  "  The  Doctor;"  like  some  huge  Oriental 
pile,  the  tapestry  and  drapery  of  every  Tyrian  work- 
manship and  hue,  barbaric  pearl  and  gold,  gums  and 
spices,  forests  of  Lebanon,  the  honey  of  Hymettus, 
the  grapes  and  fountains  of  Parnassus  and  Siloa, 
Celtic  uncouthness  and  Horatian  elegance,  legends 
from  nunneries  and  traditions  from  hoary  empires, — 
all  meet  together.  The  objection,  perhaps,  would 
be  that  their  individuality  remains  too  strongly 
marked.  Looking  over  the  pages  of  Taylor,  it 
seems  to  us  as  though  the  rags  and  fag  ends  of 
his  learning  would,  in  our  day,  make  a  prodigious 
scholar  ;  true,  his  style  was  not  the  English  unde- 
filed,  and  critics  have  remarked  that  the  compilers 
of  an  English  dictionary  would  find  rich  materials 
in  Taylor's  words,  like  "iniDiorigerous"  " compagina- 
tions"  "  castificatio7is"  "  conspersio7is"  "fontanels"  al- 
though he  did  not  employ  them  with  pedantic  intent. 
We  have  said  these  books  remind  us  of  that 
strange,  fantastic,  nondescript  of  architecture,  the 
Elizabethan  style :  Taylor  lived  as  the  age  which 
gloried  in  it  was  ceasing  and  expiring.  The  chief 
characteristic  of  Taylor,  however,  is  his  charming 
use  of  natural  imagery  ;  the  characteristic  we  have 
already  pointed  out,  had  it  existed  alone,  would  have 
only  won  for  him  a  reputation  for  huge  and  vast 
uncouthness.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  frequently 
permits  his  learning  to  trip  him  up.  We  have  little 
doubt  that  Heber  was  right  in  supposing  that  many 
of  these  apt  quotations  from  Greeks  and  Latins 
found  their  way  first  into  the  manuscript  as  it  was 


THE  POET-PREACHER.  157 

preparing  for  the  press.  He  had  a  most  cunning  eye 
for  the  perception  of  the  most  beautiful  individualities 
of  nature,  and  for  the  relation  of  them  to  moral 
and  spiritual  analogies.  Satire  sometimes,  and 
frequently,  seems  to  peep  from  his  sentences,  and 
to  say,  "  I  could  ;  "  but  he  was  essentially  a  humorist, 
not  in  the  sense  in  which  old  Fuller  was  a  humorist, 
but  grave  and  serious  ;  a  humorist  stopped,  half-way 
upon  his  road  to  laughter,  by  the  tender  and  the 
pitiful,  compelling  him  rather  to  a  tear. 

We  must  present  a  {q^n  of  these  illustrations, 
although  so  well  known,  in  which  the  poet  charms  so 
distinctly,  and  the  contemplative  observer  of  nature 
looks  behind  the  imagery  for  the  true  beauty  and 
spiritual  meaning  ;  it  may  be  well  objected  that  for 
the  pulpit  the  image  is,  however  beautiful,  far  too 
diffuse  and  protracted.  Some  critics  have  denied 
the  claim  of  Taylor's  style  to  be  regarded  as  musical, 
but  it  seems  to  us  to  have  a  true  rhythmic  flow, 
flute-like  rather  than  deep  and  organ-like.  It  is 
strange  that  he  had  no  taste  for  the  organ  ;  yet 
Mr.  Willmott  has,  with  a  very  natural  fancy,  supposed 
it  possible  that  the  future  poet,  Milton,  who  delighted 
in  the  flowing  rolling  organ-tone,  and  the  future 
preacher,  Taylor,  might  have  lingered  together  in 
the  solemn  twilight  of  King's  College  Chapel  when 
the  pealing  organ   poured   its  strain 

"  To  the  full-voiced  choir  below 
In  service  high,  and  anthem  clear." 

Thus  he  speaks  to  show  how  sickness  is  sanctified 
by  God  : — 

"  For  so  I  have  known  the  boisterous  north  wind  pass 


158  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

through  the  yielding  air,  which  opened  its  bosom,  and 
appeased  its  violence  by  entertaining  it  with  easy  compliance 
in  all  the  regions  of  its  reception :  but  when  the  same 
breath  of  heaven  hath  been  checked  with  the  stiffness  of 
a  tower,  or  the  united  strength  of  a  wood,  it  grew  mighty 
and  dwelt  there,  and  made  the  highest  branches  stoop,  and 
make  a  smooth  path  for  it  on  the  top  of  all  its  glories.  So 
is  sickness,  and  so  is  the  grace  of  God." 

Again,  in  the  progress  of  the  soul  towards  God 
in  prayer : — 

"  For  so  have  I  seen  a  lark  rising  from  his  bed  of  grass, 
and  soaring  upwards,  singing  as  he  rises,  and  hopes  to 
get  to  heaven,  and  climb  above  the  clouds ;  but  the  poor 
bird  was  beaten  back  with  the  loud  sighings  of  an  eastern 
wind,  and  his  motion  made  'irregular  and  unconstant, 
descending  more  at  every  breath  of  the  tempest,  than  it 
could  recover  by  the  libration  and  frequent  weighing  of 
its  wings ;  till  the  little  creature  was  forced  to  sit  down 
and  pant,  and  stay  till  the  storm  was  over ;  and  then  it 
made  a  prosperous  flight,  and  did  rise  and  sing,  as  if  it 
had  learned  music  and  motion  from  an  angel  as  he  passed 
sometimes  through  the  air  about  his  ministries  here  below. 
So  is  the  prayer  of  a  good  man  3  when  his  affairs  have 
required  business,  and  his  business  was  matter  of  discipline, 
and  his  discipline  was  to  pass  upon  a  sinning  person,  or 
had  a  design  of  charity,  his  duty  met  with  infirmities  of 
a  man,  and  anger  was  its  instrument,  and  the  instrument 
became  stronger  than  the  prime  agent,  and  raised  a  tempest, 
and  overruled  the  man;  and  then  his  prayer  was  broken, 
and  his  thoughts  were  troubled,  and  his  words  went  up 
towards  a  cloud,  and  his  thoughts  pulled  them  back  again, 
and  made  them  without  intention ;  and  the  good  man  sighs 
for  his  infirmity,  but  must  be  content  to  lose  the  prayer, 
and  he  must  recover  it  when  his  anther  is  removed,  and  his 


IDIOSYNCRASIES  OF  STYLE.  159 


spirit  is  becalmed,  made  even  as  the  brow  of  Jesus,  and 
smooth  Hke  the  heart  of  God ;  and  then  it  ascends  to 
heaven  upon  the  wings  of  the  holy  Dove,  and  dwells  with 
God,  till  it  returns,  like  the  useful  bee,  loaden  with  a 
blessing  and  the  dew  of  heaven." 

The  following  is  one  of  those  passages  especially 
condemned  as  full  of  those  vices  which  South 
maliciously  satirized  : — 

"  Neither  must  we  think  that  the  life  of  a  man  begins 
when  he  can  feed  himself,  or  walk  alone,  when  he  can 
fight,  or  beget  his  like;  for  so  he  is  contemporary  with  a 
camel  or  a  cow ;  but  he  is  first  a  man  when  he  comes  to  a 
certain,  steady  use  of  reason,  according  to  his  proportion  ;  and 
7vhen  that  is,  all  the  world  of  men  cannot  tell  precisely.  Some 
are  called  at  age  at  fourteen :  some  at  one-and-twenty ; 
some,  never ;  but  all  men,  late  enough ;  for  the  life  of  a 
man  comes  upon  him  slowly  and  insensibly.  But  as  when 
the  sun  approaches  towards  the  gates  of  the  morning,  he 
first  opens  a  little  eye  of  heaven,  and  sends  away  the  spirits 
of  darkness,  and  gives  light  to  a  cock,  and  calls  upon  the 
lark  to  matins,  and  by-and-by  gilds  the  fringes  of  a  cloud, 
and  peeps  over  the  eastern  hills,  thrusting  out  his  golden 
horns,  like  those  which  decked  the  brows  of  Moses  when 
he  was  forced  to  wear  a  veil  because  himself  had  seen 
the  face  of  God ;  and  still  while  a  man  tells  the  story,  the 
sun  gets  up  higher,  till  he  shows  a  fair  face  and  a  full 
light,  and  then  he  shines  one  whole  day,  under  a  cloud 
often,  and  sometimes  weeping  great  and  little  showers, 
and  sets  quickly:  so  is  a  man's  reason  and  his  life." 

And  yet  once  more  the  following  description  of 
the  effects  of  conscience  in  its  awakening  new  sensi- 
bilities : — 

"  A  man  is  sometimes  so  impressed  with  the  false  fires 


i6o  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

and  glarings  of  temptation,  that  he  cannot  see  the  secret 
turpitude  and  deformity ;  but  when  the  cloud  and  veil  is 
off,  then  comes  the  tormentor  from  within,  then  the  calamity 
swells,  and  conscience  increases  the  trouble,  when  God 
sends  war,  or  sickness,  or  death.  It  was  Saul's  case,  when 
he  lost  that  fatal  battle  in  which  the  ark  was  taken.  He 
thought  he  saw  the  priests  of  the  Lord  accusing  him  before 
God.  And  this  hath  been  the  old  opinion  of  the  world, 
that  in  the  days  of  their  calamity,  wicked  persons  are 
accused  by  those  whom  they  have  injured;  then  every  bush 
is  a  wild  beast,  and  every  shadoiv  is  a  ghost,  and  every  glotv- 
worm  is  a  dead  nian^s  candle,  and  every  lantern  is  a  spirit  J' 

Such  passages,  selected  really  as  illustrations  of 
what  teems  on  almost  every  page  of  our  writer, 
present  a  sufficiently  vivid  idea  of  his  style.  For 
•popular  usefulness  it  could  not  be  fitted.  For 
delighting,  and  awakening,  and  sustaining  a  cultivated 
mind  it  was  eminently  useful.  Take  again  the 
following  well-known  passage  on  the  enforcement 
of  tenderness  by  nature  : — 

"  If  you  do  but  see  a  maiden  carried  to  her  grave  a  little 
before  her  intended  marriage,  or  an  infant  die  before  the 
birth  of  reason,  nature  has  taught  us  to  pay  a  tributary  tear : 
alas  !  your  eyes  will  behold  the  ruin  of  many  families,  which 
though  they  sadly  have  deserved,  yet  mercy  is  not  delighted 
with  the  spectacle ;  and  therefore  God  places  a  watery 
cloud  in  the  eye,  that  when  the  light  of  heaven  shines  upon 
it,  it  may  produce  a  rainbow  to  be  a  sacrament  and  a 
memorial  that  God  and  the  sons  of  God  do  not  love  to  see 
a  man  perish.  God  never  rejoices  in  the  death  of  him 
that  dies ;  and  we  also  esteem  it  indecent  to  have  music 
at  a  funeral.  And  as  religion  teaches  us  to  pity  a  condemned 
criminal,  so  mercy  intercedes  for  the  most  benign  interpreta- 
tion of  the  laws.     You  must  indeed  be  as  just  as  the  laws, 


LUKEWARMNESS  IN  RELIGION.  i6i 

and  you  must  be  as  merciful  as  your  religion :  and  you 
have  no  way  to  tie  these  together,  but  to  follow  the  pattern 
in  the  Mount;  do  as  God  does,  who  'in  judgment  remem- 
bers mercy.' " 

Again,    on    the    growth    of   lukewarmness  in  re- 
ligion : — 

"  However  it  be  very  easy  to  have  our  thoughts  wander, 
yet  it  is  our  indifferency  and  lukewarmness  that  makes  it 
so  natural :  and  you  may  observe  it,  that  as  long  as  the 
light  shines  bright,  and  the  fires  of  devotion  and  desires 
flame  out,  so  long  the  mind  of  man  stands  close  to  the  altar, 
and  waits  upon  the  sacrifice ;  but  as  the  fires  die,  and 
desires  decay,  so  the  mind  steals  away  and  walks  abroad 
to  see  the  little  images  of  beauty  and  pleasure,  which  it 
beholds  in  the  falling  stars  and  little  glow-worms  of  the 
world.  The  river  that  runs  slow  and  creeps  by  the  banks* 
and  begs  leave  of  every  turf  to  let  it  pass,  is  drawn  into 
little  hoUownesses,  and  spends  itself  in  small  portions,  and 
dies  with  diversion ;  but  when  it  runs  with  vigorousness  and 
a  full  stream,  and  breaks  down  every  obstacle,  making  it 
even  as  its  own  brow,  it  stays  not  to  be  tempted  with  little 
avocations,  and  to  creep  into  holes,  but  runs  into  the  sea 
through  full  and  useful  channels ;  so  is  a  man's  prayer,  if 
it  move  upon  the  feet  of  an  abated  appetite,  it  wanders 
into  the  society  of  every  trifling  accident,  and  stays  at  the 
corners  of  the  fancy,  and  talks  with  every  object  it  meets, 
and  cannot  arrive  at  heaven ;  but  when  it  is  carried  upon 
the  wings  of  passion  and  strong  desires,  a  swift  motion  and 
a  hungry  appetite,  it  passes  on  through  all  the  intermedial 
region  of  clouds,  and  stays  not  till  it  dwells  at  the  foot 
of  the  throne,  where  mercy  sits,  and  thence  sends  holy 
showers  of  refreshment.  I  deny  not  but  some  little  drops 
will  turn  aside,  and  fall  from  the  full  channel  by  the 
weakness  of  the  banks  and  hollowness  of  the  passage ;  but 

II 


1 62  JEREMY  TA  YL  OR. 

the  main  course  is  still  continued;  and  although  the  most 
earnest  and  devout  persons  feel  and  complain  of  some 
looseness  of  spirit,  and  unfixed  attentions,  yet  their  love 
and  their  desire  secure  the  main  portions,  and  make  the 
prayer  to  be  strong,  fervent,  and  effectual." 

Taylor  has  not  been  usually  regarded  as  a  sound 
divine  ;  his  mind,  we  have  said,  was  undisciplined 
in  its  magnificence.  Bodies  of  theology  have  been 
constructed  from  the  "  Paradise  Lost  "  of  Milton  ; 
from  the  "  Divina  Commedia,"  of  Dante,  and  with 
as  much  wisdom  might  Jeremy  Taylor  be  called 
upon  for  a  system  of  theology.  The  performance 
of  such  a  work  was  not  his  gift.  He  had  a  great 
and  lovely  mind  ;  but  it  was  no  doubt  perverted 
by  treading  in  the  footsteps  of  Laud.  Coleridge 
'went  too  far,  when  he  said,  "  I  believe  Taylor  was, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  half  a  Socinian  in  heart "  ; 
the  cross  of  Christ  may  be  too  dimly  seen  in 
Taylor's  works  ;  yet  the  following  magnificent 
passage — and  there  is  an  abundance  of  such  passages 
— does  not  favour  such  a  notion  as  this  : — 

"  He  entered  into  the  world  with  all  the  circumstances  of 
poverty.  He  had  a  star  to  illustrate  His  birth  ;  but  a  stable 
for  His  bedchamber,  and  a  manger  for  His  cradle.  The 
angels  sang  hymns  when  He  was  born ;  but  He  was  cold 
and  cried,  uneasy  and  unprovided.  He  lived  long  in 
the  trade  of  a  carpenter;  He,  by  whom  God  made  the 
world,  had  in  His  first  years  the  business  of  a  mean  and 
ignoble  trade.  He  did  good  wherever  He  went ;  and, 
almost,  wherever  He  went,  was  abused.  He  deserved 
heaven  for  His  obedience,  but  found  a  cross  in  His  way 
thither:  and  if  ever  any  man  had  reason  to  expect  fair 
usages  from  God,  and  to  be  dandled  in  the  lap  of  ease, 


^'ALL   THE  SORROWS  OF  HUMANITY:'     163 


softness,  and  a  prosperous  fortune,  He  it  was  only  that 
could  deserve  that,  or  any  thing  that  can  be  good;  but 
after  He  had  chosen  to  live  a  life  of  virtue,  of  poverty,  and 
labour,  He  entered  into  a  state  of  death,  whose  shame  and 
trouble  were  great  enough  to  pay  for  the  sins  of  the  whole 
world.  And  I  shall  choose  to  express  this  mystery  in 
the  words  of  scripture.  He  died  not  by  a  single,  or  a 
sudden  death,  but  He  was  the  'Lamb  slain  from  the 
beguining  of  the  world : '  for  He  was  massacred  in  Abel, 
saith  St.  Paulinus;  He  was  tossed  upon  the  waves  of 
the  sea  in  the  person  of  Noah ;  it  was  He  that  went  out 
of  His  country,  when  Abraham  was  called  from  Charran 
and  wandered  from  His  native  soil;  He  was  offered  up 
in  Isaac,  persecuted  in  Jacob,  betrayed  in  Joseph,  blinded 
in  Samson,  affronted  in  Moses,  sawed  in  Esai,  cast  into  the 
dungeon  with  Jeremy :  for  all  these  were  types  of  Christ's 
suffering.  And  then  His  passion  continued  even  after  His 
resurrection.  For  it  is  He  Who  suffers  in  all  His  members ; 
it  is  He  that  *  endures  the  contradiction  of  all  sinners ; ' 
it  is  He  that  is  '  the  Lord  of  life,'  and  is  *  crucified  again, 
and  put  to  open  shame '  in  all  the  sufferings  of  His  servants, 
and  sins  of  rebels,  and  defiances  of  apostates  and  renegadoes, 
and  violence  of  tyrants,  and  injustice  of  usurpers,  and  the 
persecutions  of  His  church.  It  is  He  that  is  stoned  in 
St.  Stephen,  flayed  in  the  person  of  St.  Bartholomew ;  He 
was  roasted  upon  St.  Laurence  his  gridiron,  exposed  to 
lions  in  St.  Ignatius,  burned  in  St.  Polycarp,  frozen  in 
the  lake  where  stood  forty  martyrs  of  Cappadocia.  Unigeni- 
tus  enim  Dei  ad  peragendum  mortis  sua  sacramentum  con- 
summavit  omne genus  humanarum  passionujn,  said  St.  Hilary  ; 
*  the  sacrament  of  Christ's  death  is  not  to  be  accomplished 
but  by  suffering  all  the  sorrows  of  humanity.' " 

But   Taylor's   theology,    it   must    be  admitted,  is 
without   symmetry  ;  it  is   not  a  noble  building  ;  a 


1 64  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

very  large  portion  of  his  writings  reads  like  the  essays 
and  confessions  of  Montaigne,  expressed  in  most 
dazzling  and  ambitious  language.  His  most  religious 
writings  are  what  we  have  called  them,  Divine 
contemplations  ;  thought,  in  the  more  strict  com- 
prehension of  the  term,  we  have  little  or  none  ; 
imagination  and  emotion  we  have  in  abundance. 
After  a  time  we  find  the  understanding  is  not  firm 
beneath  us,  and  we  begin  to  perceive  that  if  we 
demand  from  our  author  argumentative  coherence, 
we  shall  deal  unjustly  with  him,  while  we  cut 
ourselves  off  from  the  possession  of  much  pleasure. 
We  learn  that  his  gift  is  to  teach  us  rather  as  a 
seer  than  as  a  philosopher  ;  to  lift  us  at  once  to 
the  spiritual  rather  than  debate  with  us  the  material 
reasons  of  things.  When  he  attempts  the  latter  we 
become  angry  with  him  ;  always,  when  he  attempts 
the  former,  it  is  as  if  at  his  touch  the  tabernacle 
of  the  testimony  is  opened  in  heaven. 

Mr.  Willmott  places  the  "  Ductor  Dubitantium," 
certainly  his  largest  work,  by  the  side  of  the 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  but  few  readers  will  agree  with 
him  ;  that  work  is  an  interesting  monument  to 
Taylor's  fame  ;  but  other  works  far  exceed  it  in 
interest  and  importance.  We  find  it  difficult  in 
these  days  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  so  elaborate 
a  piece  of  casuistry  ;  doubts  are  as  plentiful  now 
as  then,  but  they  are  of  another  character  and 
quality.  It  belongs  to  those  days  and  those  minds 
in  which  the  Confessional  is  a  perpetually  recurring 
difficulty,  when  the  soul  walks  in  the  leading-strings 
of  opinion,  and  trembles  beneath  the  beck  of  the 
priesthood.     It   is  a  great  work,  not  only  in  bulk, 


CONSCIENCE  AND  DOUBTS.  165 


but  in  learning,  in  suggestion,  and   in  piety.     It  is 
now,  no  doubt,  far  too   much  a  neglected   work  ;  it 
abounds   with  the  rare  felicities  of  Taylor,  but  we 
suppose  no  one  would  exchange  it  for  the  "  Holy 
Living    and    Dying,"  or    the    "Life  of   Christ,"    or 
the  "  Liberty  of  Prophesying."     The  world  cares  little 
now  for  the  settlement   of   such   questions   in    that 
way  ;  few  go  to  ecclesiastical  courts  to  settle  cases 
of  conscience ;  the  Church  is  not  now  beheld  through 
gratings  and  cloistered  walls;  it  is   more  free,  and 
yet  it  is  more  painful ;  it  is  less  vicarious,  and  more 
personal.      Whether    consciences    are    ever   tortured 
now  as  they  were  in   those  times,  may  be  doubted  ; 
perhaps  they  are  not  less  sensitive,  but  more  healthy. 
A  soul  covered  with  doubts  is   like  a  body  covered 
with  ulcers,  and  such  a  state  as  that  to  which  Taylor 
speaks  is  as  morbid  as  a  dissecting-room.     We  order 
things    differently  in    Church    relations   now.     And 
yet  for  that   very  reason,  it  may  be,  such  a  book 
can   never   be  popular,    nor    is    it  desirable   that   it 
should   become  popular  ;  it  may  be  very  necessary 
that  it  should  be  read  by  men  who  have  to  deal 
with  consciences  ;  particular  light  it  may  not  indeed 
give  ;    but,     as    on   the  best    and     strongest    mind 
systems  of  mental  and  moral  science  do  not  remain 
as  systems,  but  tend  to  enlarge  the  mind,  to  furnish 
it    with    ideas,    and    to    present   it    with  aspects  of 
interior  things,  so  the  work  of  Taylor,  and  similar 
works,  conduct  the  reader  into  the  soul's  dissecting- 
room  ;  accustoms  the  mind  to  dangerous  questions 
and  subterfuges  ;  to  the  subtleties  and  temptations 
alike  of  scrupulous  and   unscrupulous  spirits.      The 
reader    will    very   frequently   regret    the    prolonged 


1 66  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

discussion,  the  long  sinuous  course  of  involved 
remark,  the  indirectness  of  the  allusion  ;  but  then 
he  will  also  congratulate  himself  on  the  accumulation 
of  amazing  wealth  by  the  way.  Learning  is  lavished 
with  quite  as  much,  or  even  more  prodigality  than 
in  the  other  volumes,  and  on  the  whole,  the  work 
may  be  regarded  rather  as  a  curiosity  of  literature, 
illustrating  the  ancient  method  of  dealing  with 
spiritual  things ;  like  an  old  fossil,  also,  not  only 
revealing  the  ancient  method,  but  guiding  the  mind 
to  many  of  the  most  interesting  questions  connected 
with  life  in  general  ;  but  few  people  read  fossils, 
and  he  must  be  really  interested  who  disturbs  the 
"  Ductor  Dubitantium  "  from   its  dusty  shelves. 

But  it  was  in  the  same  spirit  Jeremy  Taylor 
discussed  other  subjects.  He  entered  into  all  with 
the  mind  of  the  casuist,  he  had  much  in  common 
with  those  theologians  who  lay  bare  the  muscles, 
who  tear  off  the  moral  skin,  that  they  may  observe 
more  clearly.  There  are  few  persons  who  would 
discuss  the  Liberty  of  Speech  nowadays  from  the 
same  point  of  view  as  our  author.  The  world  has, 
we  fancy,  gained  something  since  his  day  ;  there 
are  some  noble  things  said  in  its  pages,  but  it  is 
sorrowful  to  think  that  they  should  ever  have  been 
regarded  as  noble  human  truths,  axioms  innate  to 
our  moral  conscience  and  consciousness.  The  world 
has  left  behind  it,  as  first  principles,  doctrines  which 
savoured  of  heresy  in  that  age, — the  thoughtful  world, 
the  world  that  rules  opinion  ;  there  is,  however, 
another  world,  a  world  of  imbecile  ignorance,  a  world 
lagging  in  the  rear  of  things,  which  does  not  even 
yet  keep  up  with  the  "  Liberty  of  Prophesying."      It 


"  THE  LIBERTY  OF  PROPHESYING:'        167 


still  remains,  like  the  Areopagitica,  a  monument  of 
the  thought  and  the  majesty  of  our  language  ;  it 
is  so  honourable  to  human  nature,  that  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  it  was  the  result,  not  of  the  author's 
exile,  and  his  Church's  sorrows,  but  of  his  convictions 
and  his  hopes  ;  and  certainly  there  is  nothing  in 
it  to  reprove  ;  its  tender  and  gentle  spirit  excites 
our  affectionate  admiration  ;  let  us  hope  the  report 
of  the  author's  penitence  is  founded  in  mistake  ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 
B UT  WHA TIS  ELOQ UENCE  ? 

DO  you  know  the  story  of  the  clock  of  Ezerborn? 
You  will  find  it  in  Mr.  Curzon's  most  pleasant 
"  Travels  in  Armenia."  The  clock  of  Ezerborn  fell 
out  of  repair,  and  would  by  no  persuasion  give  forth 
any  knowledge  of  the  state  of  the  time  ;  it  occupied 
the  place  of  importance  in  the  tower  or  citadel,  and 
although  there  did  occasionally  appear  in  the  city  a 
watch  or  a  chronometer,  this  tower  clock  was  looked 
upon  as  the  father  of  the  watches,  and  all  the  clocks 
whatever  that  could  make  their  appearance  in  the 
city.  But,  unfortunately,  it  came  to  a  stand,  and 
there  seemed  no  possibility  of  repairing  the  mis- 
fortune. And  what  a  misfortune  even  for  those 
barbarous  people  to  find  time's  finger  standing  still 
and  refusing  to  strike  the  old  bell !  But  of  all  the 
people  who  were  perplexed,  no  one  was  so  much 
perplexed  as  the  Pasha,  and  he  was  the  more  con- 
founded because  it  did  not  seem  to  him  so  difficult 
a  matter  as  it  really  was  to  set  the  works  of  the 
clock  to  rights  and  its  finger  hand  moving  with 
some  degree  of  accuracy.  To  him  it  seemed  that 
the  man  who  had  mastered  any  other  art  might  also 
be  perfectly  master  of  the  art  of  clock-making.  How 
could  a  man  be  master  of  any  other  trade  and  yet 


THE  CLOCK  OF  EZERBORN.  169 

know  nothing  of  watches  or  clocks  ?  It  might  be 
a  tailor  ;  then  said  the  Pasha,  "  Take  him  to  the 
Tower  and  let  him  mend  the  clock  !  "  The  tailor 
remonstrated  that  his  duties  were  sartorial  and  not 
horological.  "What?"  the  Pasha  would  say.  "Dost 
thou  pretend  to  make  vestments  for  men's  bodies,  and 
art  thou  ignorant  of  clocks  ?  Thou  dog  !  Away 
with  him  to  the  Tower,  and  if  he  cannot  restore  the 
clock  to  health,  away  with  him  to  prison."  Or  it 
might  be  a  doctor,  whose  case  was  worse  still.  "Dog 
of  a  Frank,  dost  thou  profess  to  expel  evil  demons 
from  the  bowels  of  mankind,  and  dost  thou  not  know 
how  to  do  so  with  a  clock  "i  Dost  thou  send  down 
our  throats  diabolical  pills,  and  canst  thou  not 
administer  to  the  disorganized  constitution  of  a 
clock  }  Hath  not  a  clock  a  pulse  when  he  is  alive 
and  in  good  health }  Go  then  and  see,  and  cure 
the  clock.  Go,  guards,  and  take  him  to  the  Tower, 
and  if  he  cannot  cure  the  clock,  thrust  him  into 
prison  !"  This  seems  to  us  very  funny.  The  story 
is  really  a  parable,  illustrative  of  the  ignorance  of 
those  to  whom  the  religion  of  mankind  is  only  an 
old  clock  which  every  hand  can  touch,  and  for  which 
every  ignorant  and  inexperienced  tailor  and  cobbler 
has  some  specific  and  remedy.  Only  the  difficulty 
increases  in  this  case,  because,  instead  of  any  hesi- 
tancy, the  most  ignorant  and  thoughtless  are  fre- 
quently among  the  very  first  to  attempt,  with  their 
vile  nostrums  and  preposterous  specifics,  to  rectify 
the  hands  of  the  great  clock  of  the  universe,  or  the 
subtle  machinery  of  the  human  soul. 

And  some  such  ideas  have  apparently  held  con- 
cerning preaching.     Everybody  can  preach !   Sermons 


170  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE ? 

are  generally  regarded  as  uninteresting  reading. 
What  immense  piles  of  them,  what  continents  of 
volumes  of  them,  line  the  shelves  of  the  book- 
sellers' stores,  and  even  the  libraries  of  readers  ; 
and  from  many  of  them  pleasant,  and  even  interest- 
ing selections  may  be  made,  but  they  are  not  the 
pulpit ;  the  interest  has  very  nearly  vanished,  even 
though  they  be  associated  with  great  names  ;  the  in- 
terest does  not  so  much  attach  to  those  volumes — the 
interest  hangs  round  the  man.  That  is  true  of  most 
published  sermons,  even  of  very  eminent  preachers, 
which  the  poet  Wordsworth  once  remarked  to  us,  in 
the  little  back  parlour  at  Rydal  Mount,  when,  after  a 
cup  of  tea,  we  took  down  from  the  shelf  a  volume  of 
the  works  of  Samuel  Johnson.  "  Ah,"  said  the  poet, 
^'the  time  has  come  when  people  read  the  works  of 
Johnson  as  a  commentary  on,  or  because  they  are 
interested  in  Boswell's  life  of  him  !  "  It  is  so  with 
the  sermons  of  the  great  dead  preachers  ;  even 
sermons  preached  by  men  in  churches  or  buildings 
which  were  thronged  to  hear  them  hours  before  the 
preacher  went  into  the  pulpit  do  not  interest  us 
much.  We  do  not  associate  the  pulpit  with  the 
volume  ;  when  the  man  was  in  it  it  was  a  throne  ! 

We  are,  of  course,  speaking  of  the  great  pulpit 
masters  ;  and  their  printed  volumes  are  little  more 
than  the  dead  wood  of  that  platform  from  whence 
the  man  threw  forth  his  words  of  power,  but  which 
is  now  mere  wood  and  nothing  more.  And  yet  let 
us  not  be  unjust  ;  for  ourselves  a  very  large  multi- 
tude of  volumes  of  sermons  are  among  the  most 
delightful,  entertaining,  and  instructive  pieces  of 
reading.      Perhaps  they  are  not  the   productions  of 


THREE  ORDERS  OF  PREACHERS.  171 

preachers  who  were  of  the  order  of  sensational 
orators,  and  whose  churches  or  chapels  were  always 
thronged  by  expectant  crowds  ;  published  sermons 
by  any  eminent  preachers  may  yet  receive,  without 
any  abatement  of  respect,  the  characterization  we 
have  just  given  ;  others,  again,  are  to  us  delightful 
pieces  of  reading ;  we  would  as  readily  give  our 
hours  for  entertainment  to  them,  as  to  Montaigne, 
to  Addison,  to  Burton's  Anatomy,  to  dear  old  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  or  to  Emerson.  Our  pulpit  classics 
are  eminently  rich  in  the  ornateness  of  Taylor,  the 
wit  of  South,  the  weight  of  Barrow,  the  delightful 
metaphysics  of  Donne,  or  the  mysticism  of  John 
Smith,  of  Cambridge  ;  our  recent  pulpit  literature  is 
equally  rich.  We  shall  refer  at  length  by-and-by  to 
the  extraordinary  charm  of  the  sermons  of  our  two 
great  Cardinals,  Newman  and  Manning  ;  then  we 
have  the  massive  suggestiveness  of  Mozley,  who  is 
far  too  little  known  ;  the  intuitionalism  of  Frederick 
Robertson,  and  the  nimble,  lightning-like  brilliancy 
and  scenic  wealth  of  Thomas  Lynch  ;  but  there  are 
multitudes  beside.  Our  library  shelves  bend  glances 
upon  us  from  a  crowd  of  witnesses. 

But  we  do  no  dishonour  to,  we  are  guilty  of  no 
disparagement  of  the  immense  number  of  faithful 
and  useful  men  who,  as  sowers,  have  gone  forth  to 
sow.  But  preachers  are  of  three  orders.  First,  we 
have  the  Talkers,  We  are  only  speaking  of  good  and 
useful  men — men  who  are  born  talkers,  to  whom  it  is 
easy  to  pour  out  words,  like  waves  bearing  freightage 
of  venerable,  useful,  and  awful  truths.  Then  we 
have  the  Essayists,  men  whose  power  is  chiefly  in 
the  study,  who  carefully  and  conscientiously  arrange 


172  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE P 


their  thoughts  upon  any  given  subject  and  array 
them  in  a  vesture  of  beautiful  and  appropriate  words, 
hghtening  them  up  by  helpful  analogies  and  images. 
But  neither  of  these  represents  him  of  whom  we 
speak  as  the  third  man,  eminently  the  Preacher, 
the  man  of  a  large  soul,  and  to  whom  words  and 
thoughts  are  vehicles  of  expression,  but  whose  nature 
is  susceptible  of  a  blaze  of  enthusiasm,  which,  when 
he  speaks,  wraps  every  soul  in  it,  as  in  a  flame,  and 
bears  all  before  it,  as  on  an  irresistible  torrent.  The 
old  world  appears  to  have  had  a  few  men  of  this 
order ;  the  Christian  centuries  present  to  us  a  few  of 
this  matchless  and  marvellous  type.  Many  masterly 
critics  will  have  it  that  oratory  has  none  of  its  most 
lofty  and  overwhelming  performances  outside  of  the 
languages  of  Greece  and  Rome  ;  that,  in  the  history 
of  eloquence,  its  earliest  annals  tell  the  story  of  its 
most  illustrious  triumphs,  and  that  now  all  that  can 
be  said  is  that 

*'  Our  little  barks  attendant  sail, 

Pursue  the  triumph,  and  partake  the  gale.** 

It  is  affirmed  that  we  have  had  nothing  since 
approaching  the  Olynthiacs  and  Philippics  of  Demos- 
thenes, through  which  he  lightened,  and  thundered 
over,  and  shook  all  Greece  ;  while  to  others  again 
Cicero  still  seems,  as  he  seemed  to  Longinus,  the 
greatest  of  critics,  and  to  Quintilian  the  greatest  of 
rhetoricians,  the  most  unrivalled  master  of  matchless 
eloquence.  We  listen  to  the  verdict,  but  we  do  not 
believe  in  it.  Preachers  of  the  order  we  are  indicat- 
ing look  almost  like  supernatural  men  ;  they  were 
literally    men    who,   by  the   constant   burning   of  a 


"ELOQUENCE  IS  MIND  IN  MOTIONS       173 


sacred  fire  within  their  souls,  by  their  perpetual 
residence  within  the  neighbourhood  of  highest  truths, 
appear  to  have  been  prevented  from  taking  any 
counsel  with  flesh  and  blood,  or  from  counting  their 
Hves  as  of  much  importance  in  comparison  with 
those  h'ghts  which  they  saw  perpetually  shining  from 
behind  the  veil,  and  which  they  were  perpetually 
attempting  to  make  visible  to  their  hearers. 

What  is  eloquence  ?  Briefly,  then,  "  eloquence  is 
mind  in  motion "  ;  so  says  Professor  Shedd  ;  and 
D'Alembert  also  says,  in  admirable  harmony  with 
this  definition,  "It  is  the  transfer  of  the  orator's 
consciousness  into  the  auditor's  consciousness";  and, 
perhaps,  this  constitutes  at  once  the  splendour  and 
the  danger  of  images.  It  is  a  very  fine  art,  that  of 
picture-framing  ;  what  should  we  think  of  the  taste 
of  the  man,  possessed  of  a  Murillo  or  a  Raphael,  who 
cared  more  for  the  frame  in  which  he  suspended  his 
painting  than  for  the  light  in  which  it  hung,  or  for 
the  painting  itself.?  Hence  we  have  known  orators 
so  impressed  with  the  grand  forms  of  natural  majesty, 
that  text  and  truth  were  lost  sight  of  in  the  wild 
moor,  the  vast  meadow  beneath  the  shadow  of  tall 
overhanging  mountains,  the  silence  of  the  eternal 
hills,  and  the  still  and  solemn  forests,  where  the  trees 
stood  side  by  side  like  brothers,  the  glossy  ivy 
wreathing  the  ancient  crag,  the  wild  thyme  spreading 
a  bed  for  the  weary,  the  foxglove  ringing  its  beauti- 
ful bells,  the  birch  bending  to  kiss  the  stream,  the 
mountain  ash,  and  the  evergreen  banks,  the  lone 
kirkyard  among  the  mountains,  the  solitary  shieling, 
or  the  far-distant  farm,  remote  from  minster  spire  or 
city  clock.     Such  scenes,  such*  images,  are  often  near 


174  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE? 

to  a  speaker,  but  in  themselves  they  do  not  consti- 
tute eloquence,  unless  they  form  a  portion  of  the 
very  business  in  the  speaker's  mind.  They  are  all 
very  pleasing,  and  they  exercise  a  very  palatable 
charm  upon  the  fancy  ;  but  they  may  be  all  diver- 
sions of  the  fancy  from  the  subject  in  hand  rather 
than  assistants  to  the  main  topic  of  discourse  ;  pro- 
bably many  of  the  sermons  of  Dr.  Guthrie  may 
have  affected   readers  and  hearers  in   this  way. 

W/iat  is  eloquence  ?  It  is  the  power  imparted  to 
words  to  become  motives^  to  move  the  soul,  and  so,  in 
fact,  to  move  to  action,  even  as  Horace  said,  "  It  is 
not  enough  that  poems  be  beautiful  ;  they  must  be 
affecting,"  and  carry  the  soul  of  the  hearer.  Hence 
an  eloquent  mind  is  a  mind  under  motion  ;  it  is  the 
secret  of  all  influence,  and  a  great  Roman  Catholic 
prelate  well  says,  in  his  lectures  on  preaching,  that 
"to  address  men  well  they  must  he  loved  much";  and 
he  says  again,  "  We  are  always  eloquent  when  we 
wish  to  save  one  whom  we  love  ;  we  are  always 
listened  to  when   we  are  loved." 

What  is  eloquence  ?  The  power  of  the  pulpit,  or, 
in  one  word,  persuasion.  Whatever  may  be  its 
artillery,  whatever  its  various  methods  and  modes, 
it  reaches  its  end  when  it  fulfils  this  ;  it  falls  short 
of  its  end  when  it  fails  here.  Its  ample  and  moving 
flights  of  impassioned  eloquence,  its  strong  rivers  of 
plated  common-sense,  its  strokes  of  humour  sanctified 
and  toned  to  high  purpose,  its  "  slap-dash  "  strokes, 
as  Dean  Milner  characterised  the  preaching  of 
Rowland  Hill, — every  image  or  analogy,  judiciously 
used,  has  this  for  its  object.  Its  use  of  parable  and 
anecdote,  its  lighter  touches  of  description,  its  im- 


OUR  LORD'S  METHOD.  175 

passioned  declamation, — persuasion  should  be  the 
end  and  purpose  of  all.  It  has  been  said  to  be 
the  firmly  linked  chain  of  thought  made  red-hot 
with   the  live  fire  of  emotion. 

It  has  often  been  remarked,  perhaps  more  fre- 
quently than  felt,  that  our  Lord's  discourses  are  the 
models  for  all  preaching.  They  are  so  ;  but  their 
chief  element  is  persuasion — usually  how  gentle  ; 
doctrine  distilling  like  the  dew,  or  coming  down  like 
the  soft  summer  rain  on  the  mown  grass,  in  parable, 
proverb,  and  story ;  with  a  bland  and  courteous 
entreaty,  although  sometimes  rising  to  vehement 
invective  and  stern  and  terrible  denunciation. 
Whether  He  sit  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  on  the 
side  of  the  hill  or  the  mountain,  or  speak  to  the  mul- 
titudes on  the  shore  from  the  deck  of  the  ship,  or 
quietly  pour  out  His  stream  of  words  to  His  friends 
in  the  upper  room,  persuasion  is  the  end  of  all.  As 
to  the  manner  of  what  He  said,  it  is  all  an  impres- 
sive, subduing,  and  more  captivating  persuasiveness 
which  arrests  us.  Socrates  was  a  great  talker,  a  born 
talker ;  but  one  cannot  but  feel  that  his  first  instinct 
with  every  man  with  whom  he  talked  was  to  quarrel 
with  him,  to  do  exactly  what  the  Pharisees  are  said 
to  have  attempted  with  our  Lord :  "  to  catch  him  in 
his  words."  This  was  never  our  Lord's  method. 
Sometimes  we  find  how,  when  they  attempted  it.  He 
caught  them  in  their  own  trap  and  toil,  and  moved 
them  so  awkwardly  that  "  no  man  after  that  durst 
ask  Him  any  question."  But  to  quarrel  was  not 
His  way,  nor  should  it  be  the  way  of  any  honest 
and  ingenuous  teacher.  Faithful  and  lucid  persua- 
sion,  all    other   things    being    equal,  must    be    the 


176  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE?. 

preacher's  highest  gift,  his  surest  guarantee  of 
success,  and,  therefore,  should  be  his  highest  model. 
How  many  ages  since  Aristotle,  that  mighty  ancient 
master,  said  that  "  to  demand  demonstration  from 
an  orator  would  be  very  much  like  allowing  a 
mathematician  to  employ  persuasion."  He  means 
to  say  that  demonstration  is  the  business  of  the 
mathematician,  persuasion  is  that  of  the  speaker. 

In  the  history  of  the  pulpit  we  are  all  carried 
away  too  much  by  the  story  of  brilliant  effects,  the 
dazzling  and  magnificent  displays  of  genius  ;  but 
there  is  another  chapter  worthy  of  recitation,  the 
story  of  "  power  in  weakness."  Eternity  will  tell 
the  stories  of  men  who  were  not  eloquent,  as  we 
are  wont  to  understand  the  term,  who  were  never 
encouraged  by  great  success  ;  they  were  not 
Chrysostoms,  or  "  Golden  Mouths  "  ;  the  bees  did 
not  drop  honey  upon  their  lips  as  they  lay  in  the 
cradle  ;  they  were  not  keen  shrewd  men  of  business; 
they  did  not  cry,  nor  lift  up,  nor  cause  their  voice 
to  be  heard  in  the  streets ;  they  wrought  like 
miners,  buried  in  obscurity  ;  they  wrought  in  the 
night  ;  their  meekness  made  it  easy  to  assail  them. 
Yet  affectionate  hearts  heard  their  words,  and 
treasured  them  ;  and,  perhaps,  no  sermon,  which 
contains  a  word  which  has  been  wrought  out  upon 
the  anvil  of  thoughtful  and  painful  experience,  can 
ever  be  altogether  lost.  It  finds  an  audience  some- 
where, for  it  contains  that  which  assuredly  tells — 
affectionateness.  Goethe  expresses  this  truth  well, 
and,  although  the  following  translation  is  free,  it 
admirably  conveys  the  poet's  meaning,  and  the 
truth  of  all  real  eloquence :— 


THE  TRUTH  OF  REAL  ELOQUENCE.       577 

"  Persuasion,  friend,  comes  not  by  toil  or  art, 
Hard  study  never  made  the  matter  clearer  ; 
'Tis  the  live  fountain  in  the  speaker's  heart 
Sends  forth  the  streams  which  melt  the  ravished  hearer ! 
Then  work  away  for  life,  heap  book  on  book. 
Line  upon  line,  heap  precept  on  example  ! 
The  stupid  multitude  may  gaze  and  look, 
And  fools  may  think  your  stock  of  wisdom  ample. 
But  all  remain  unmoved ;  to  touch  the  heart, 
To  make  men  feel,  requires  a  different  art ; 
For  touching  hearts,  the  only  secret  known. 
My  worthy  friend,  is  this,  to  have  one  of  your  own  !  " 

Still,  after  all,  what  is  eloquence  ?  Think  of 
Demosthenes,  and,  as  there  is  but  one  Demosthenes 
and  one  Robert  Hall,  think  of  Hall  !  It  is  quite 
certain  that  Hall  was  a  far  greater  man  than 
Demosthenes  in  the  order  of  his  mind,  in  his  eleva- 
tion of  sentiment  ;  and,  in  his  tastes  and  studies, 
he  much  more  nearly  resembled  Cicero,  most  perfect 
of  pagans  and  nearest  approximation  to  the 
Christian  philosopher  ;  but  Cicero  was  much  more 
of  a  rhetorician  than  either  Demosthenes  or  Hall, 
aimed  more  at  producing  superficial  effect,  and 
appears  to  have  cared  more  about  the  posing  of 
the  body  and  retaining  an  unrumpled  and  un- 
creased  robe.  On  the  other  hand,  we  would  not 
degrade  Hall's  character  to  the  level  of  the 
Billingsgate  of  Demosthenes.  Shakespeare  himself 
could  not  have  been  more  ready  in  the  manufacture 
of  compound  epithets.  The  abusive  Greek  deli- 
ciously  draws  out  the  venomous  power — or  rather, 
let  us  say,  the  abusive  vehemence — of  the  Attic 
tongue,  calls  his  adversary  "  a  wretch,"  "  a  revilcr," 
"  a   miscreant,"  "  a   pompous   declaimer,"   "  the    off- 

12 


178  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE ? 

scouring  and  hack  of  the  courts,"  "  a  word-spoiler," 
"  an  execrable  pedagogue."  "  Why,  you  wretch,  do 
you  bring  your  false  accusations  ?  Why  do  you 
fabricate  your  lying  words  ?  Why  do  you  not 
purge  away  your  filth  ? "  Plenty  of  expressions 
falling  from  the  lips  of  Hall  assure  us  that  he  also 
would,  in  like  circumstances,  have  been  quite  equal 
to  the  discharging  of  this  verbal  tempest  of  in- 
vective. His  characterization  of  a  reviewer  who 
was  guilty  of  tergiversation  and  false  quotation 
reminds  us  of  this  :  "  Like  a  certain  animal,  in  the 
eastern  part  of  the  world,  which  is  reputed  to  be 
extremely  fond  of  climbing  a  tree  for  that  purpose, 
he  merely  pelts  the  author  with  his  own  produce." 
When,  upon  his  settlement  at  Cambridge,  a  gentle- 
man of  very  questionable  opinions  said,  "  Ah,  sir, 
we  shall  have  you  among  us  soon,  I  see,"  he  re- 
plied, "  Me  among  you,  sir  !  me  among  you  !  Why, 
if  that  were  ever  the  case,  I  should  deserve  to  be 
tied  to  the  tail  of  the  great  red  dragon,  and  whipped 
round  the  nethermost  regions  to  all  eternity ! " 
In  many  instances,  in  conversation  in  the  parlour, 
we  do  meet  with  many  hints  of  the  power  of  a  fierce 
and  fiery  invective ;  and,  chastened  and  subdued, 
it  manifests  itself  in  the  pulpit  in  passages,  we 
venture  to  think,  finer  than  any  which  meet  us  in 
Demosthenes  ;  as,  for  instance,  in  that  famous  pas- 
sage on  modern  infidelity  : — "  Eternal  God  !  on  what 
are  thine  enemies  intent .-'  What  are  those  enter- 
prises of  guilt  and  horror  that,  for  the  safety  of  their 
performances,  require  to  be  enveloped  in  a  darkness 
which  the  eye  of  Heaven  must  not  pierce  'i  Miser- 
able men  !  proud  of  being  the  offspring  of  chance, 


ORA  TOR  Y  A   MYSTER  Y.  179 

in  love  with  universal  disorder,  whose  happiness  is 
involved  in  the  belief  of  there  being  no  witness  to 
their  designs,  and  who  are  at  ease  only  because 
they  suppose  themselves  inhabitants  of  a  forsaken 
and  fatherless  world  !  " 

Again,  what  is  eloquence  ?  One  of  the  great 
charms  of  oratory  is  speed — speed,  of  course, 
which  combines  with  dignity,  and  never  suggests 
the  idea  of  haste  or  hurry ;  this  has  been  an  as- 
tonishing attribute  in  some  men — in  Robert  Hall, 
for  instance,  and  in  his  far  inferior  contemporaries 
Robert  McAll,  and  James  Parsons — for  there  is 
something  captivating  in  motion,  in  graceful  motion ; 
it  was  said  of  Mr.  Hall's  eloquence  that  his 
mind,  like  a  vast  machine,  gradually  acquired  a 
velocity  which  not  only  called  forth  every  power 
of  his  soul  into  action,  but  had  an  irresistible 
influence  upon  more  remote  objects,  and  touched 
all  the  springs  of  feeling  and  of  action  in  the 
bosoms  of  his  hearers  ;  the  pathos  in  the  speed 
created  an  agitation  and  tumult  in  the  soul,  and 
images  of  terror  and  of  sublimity  became  sudden 
strokes  of  power.  Oratory  is  a  mystery  ;  it  is  an 
inexplicable  mystery  ;  again  and  again  we  compare 
it  to  the  necromantic  power  of  great  and  overwhelm- 
ing singers,  the  wealth  of  expression  in  the  tender 
tenor,  "  the  loud  uplifted  trumpet"  of  the  soprano  ; 
add  the  wizardry  of  voice  to  the  equally  subtle 
combination  of  mental  powers,  all  in  happy  harmony, 
rhythm,  and  symmetry,  and  we  suppose  we  may 
form  some  conception  of  the  orator,  only  that 
to  us  the  most  essential  part  of  the  orator  dies 
when  he  dies.     We  may  still  retain  his  words,  the 


i8o  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE? 

close  compacted  chain  mail  of  his  reasoning,  we 
may  still  retain  the  radiancy  of  imagination  and 
the  harmonious  melody  of  expression,  but,  after 
all,  these  are  only  the  chords  of  a  rare  and  exquisite 
instrument  upon  which  the  fingers  can  play  no 
more.  Thus  some  minor, — Hall's,  for  instance, — 
raced  on  like  an  ample,  rich,  rejoicing  river,  bearing, 
in  its  course,  freshness  and  irrigation,* 

Shall  we  say  how  contrasted  are  some  of  these 
great  masters  of  eloquence  ?  See  one,  airy,  bland, 
soft,  and  prepossessing ;  see  that  other,  lowering, 
hard,  stern,  and  almost  repulsive. 

Of  the  first,  the  passions  sit  as  in  an  imposing 
champagne  upon  the  face,  and  wave  and  flicker  to 
and  fro  with  every  turn  of  speech  ;  the  passions  of 
the  other  are  within,  and  while  every  ear  is  tingling 
at  what  he  says,  and  perhaps  the  hearer  is  writhing 
in  agony,  his  visage  retains  a  cold  and  brassy 
hue. 

One  orator  is  plump,  sleek,  and  graceful ;  the 
other  is  bony,  harsh,  and  ungainly.  We  have  seen 
one  orator  stand  up  erect  as  if  looking  for  the 
applause  of  others  ;  we  have  seen  another  coiled  and 
concentrated,  as  if  satisfied  with  the  power  within 
himself.  We  have  seen,  or  heard  one  fighting  as  if 
for  victory  ;  we  have  heard  another  speak  as  if  for 
the  mere  glory  of  the  speech. 

We  have  heard  one  coming  forth  with  illustrations 
wholly  classical,  or  flaunting  all  the  flowers  of  the 
muses,  another  hurling  at  his  hearers  the  whole 
mass  of  the  encyclopaedia. 

*  See  these  remarks  amplified  in  the  life  of  Robwt  Hall  by 
Edwin  Paxton  Hood.     Hodder  and  Stoughton. 


JEANNIE  DEANS.  181 

We  have  seen  one  going  forth  hke  a  lapidary, 
picking  up  gems  of  great  value,  and  fitting  them  for 
diadems  ;  we  have  seen  another,  like  a  giant,  with 
an  iron  mace  breaking  the  rocks  to  pieces,  and 
preparing  a  path  through  the  most  stubborn  and 
untoward  ways  over  which  mind   might  travel. 

We  have  known  some  orators  select  words  for  the 
smoothness  of  their  flow  and  the  music  of  their 
sound  ;  we  have  known  others  who  seemed  to  select 
words,  as  the  more  pleasant  to  their  taste,  the  longer, 
more  stubborn,  and  terrible.  We  have  seen  some 
such  men  in  the  very  tempest  of  their  speech,  when 
it  seemed  as  if  the  sky  lowered  and  muttered  thunder, 
the  naturally  stiff  form  twined  as  by  the  proboscis  of 
an  elephant,  while  form  and  feature  were  as  if  darting 
forth  dark  fires  of  retribution  ;  the  storm  was  on  the 
wing,  and 

*'  Iron  sleet  and  arrowy  shower 

Hurtled  through  the  darkened  air  !  '* 

Perhaps  the  great  attribute  of  the  highest  eloquence 
is  that  it  throws  a  spell  and  an  enchantment  over 
the  hearer  ;  as  with  those  subtle  gases  which  reduce 
us  to  their  power,  we  are  fully  conscious,  though 
unconscious  of  what  it  is  that  is  mastering  us. 
And  this  reminds  us  of  a  great  mistake  made  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  it  was  the  keen  critical  eye  of 
Lord  Jeffrey  which  instantly  detected  it;  it  is  in  that 
touching  scene  in  "  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,"  in 
which  Jeannie  Deans  appears  before  the  Queen 
Caroline,  to  intercede  with  the  sovereign  to  save  her 
sister's  life.  The  Queen  had  charged  on  Jeannie  some 
knowledge  of  the  Porteous  riots  ;  Jeannie  soon,  and 


i82  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE P 

quietly  disposed  of  this.  "  But  my  sister,  my  poor 
sister,  she  still  lives,  though  her  days  and  her  hours 
are  numbered.  She  still  lives,  and  a  word  of  the 
King's  mouth  might  restore  her  to  a  broken-hearted 
auld  man  that  never,  in  his  daily  and  nightly 
exercise,  forgot  to  pray  that  his  Majesty  might  be 
blessed  with  a  long  and  prosperous  reign,  and  that 
his  throne  and  the  throne  of  his  posterity  might 
be  established  in  righteousness.  Oh,  madam,  save 
an  honest  house  from  dishonour,  and  an  unhappy 
girl,  not  eighteen  years  of  age,  from  an  early  and 
dreadful  death.  Alas  !  it  is  not  when  we  sleep  soft, 
and  wake  merrily  ourselves,  that  we  think  on  other 
people's  sufferings.  Our  hearts  are  waxed  light 
within  us  then,  and  we  are  for  righting  our  own 
wrongs  and  fighting  our  own  battles.  But  when 
the  hour  of  trouble  comes  to  the  mind  or  to  the 
body — and  seldom  may  it  visit  your  leddyship — and 
when  the  hour  of  death  comes,  that  comes  to  high 
and  low — lang  and  late  may  it  be  yours — oh,  my 
leddy,  then  it  isna  what  we  have  done  for  ourselves, 
but  what  we  have  done  for  others,  that  we  think 
on  most  pleasantly."  Tears  followed  tears  down 
Jeannie's  cheeks  as,  her  features  glowing  and 
quivering  with  emotion,  she  pleaded  her  sister's 
cause  with  a  pathos  which  was  at  once  simple  and 
solemn.  "  This  is  eloquence,"  said  her  Majesty  to 
the  Duke  of  Argyll,  who  had  introduced  Jeannie  to 
the  Queen.  That  is  the  great  novelist's  mistake. 
The  speech  of  Jeannie  may  have  been  eloquence — 
we  should  assuredly  say  it  is  eloquence  of  the  very 
highest  order — but  Lord  Jeffrey  very  shrewdly  re- 
marked that  if  it  were  so,  that  would  not  hi^e  been 


THINGS  REMEMBER  ABLE.  183 

her  majesty's  comment  upon  it.  True  eloquence  is, 
perhaps,  the  very  rarest  gift  possessed  by  any  son  or 
daughter  of  man,  far  more  rare,  we  believe,  than 
the  art  of  poetry,  or  the  power  of  the  painter  ;  it 
never  leaves  the  impression  on  the  mind  that  it  is 
eloquence.  Pure  eloquence  is  not  like  a  mirror  in 
which  you  see  the  speaker  ;  it  is  like  a  transparent 
glass,  through  which  you  behold  that  which  he  has 
been  attempting,  with  a  perfect,  self-abandoned,  but 
chastened  consciousness,  which  has  kept  him  entirely 
out  of  the  hearer's  eye,  to  describe. 

But  again,  what  is  eloquence  ?  *'  Weight  without 
lustre,"  said  Lord  Chesterfield,  speaking  of  eloquence, 
"  is  lead  "  ;  but  this  is  not  always  so.  Gold  may  be 
as  heavy  as  lead,  but  it  may  not  have  been  beaten 
out  into  the  feathery  gold  leaf,  or  drawn  out  into  the 
glittering  or  golden  wire,  the  filigree  of  the  jewel, 
or  the  easy  manipulation  of  the  coin.  There  is, 
indeed,  plenty  of  speech  which  is  only  leaden, 
merely  heavy,  but  there  is  gold  in  the  mine  and 
gold  in  the  mint ;  and  there  are  some  sermons,  very 
short  and  compact,  with  very  little  glitter,  but  with 
a  gravity,  or  a  gravamen,  which  makes  them  very  re- 
memberable.  We  remember  a  sermon  of  old  Matthew 
Wilks'  of  this  order  ;  all  his  sermons  were  of  this 
order,  but  we  take  one  on  the  text,  "  Whom  have  I 
in  heaven  but  Thee  ?  and  there  is  nothing,"  etc. 
After  some  first  words,  said  he,  "  I  shall  take  this 
tQyit.  2iS  foiir  stones,  i.  K  loadstone;  it  is  the  supreme 
attraction.  Whom  ?  2.  A  milestone,  by  which  a  man 
may  test  how  far  he  has  travelled  in  his  outward 
religious  life.  3.  A  touchsto7ie,  by  which  he  tests 
the  s^te  of  his  inward  affections  and  internal  piety. 


i84  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE ? 

4.  And  last,  a  grindstone ;  if  a  man  have  no  such 
knowledge  of  God,  then  he  is  ground  by  the  cares 
of  a  present  evil  world  and  by  the  fears  of  a  coming 
Judge  on  earth  !  "  Nothing  very  lustrous,  but  how 
remeniberable. 

After  all,  again,  and  for  the  last  time,  we  inquire, 
What  is  eloquence  ?  When  we  think  of  it  in  its  rela- 
tion to  the  pulpit,  Robert  Boyle,  that  great  naturalist 
and  philosopher, — now  almost  a  forgotten  writer, — in 
his  paper  on  the  sermon  and  the  looking-glass, 
likens  the  wit  and  the  fine  language  in  which  the 
sermon  is  set  forth  to  the  frame  of  the  looking- 
glass,  which,  although  it  has  no  power  to  reflect  the 
image,  may  attract  the  observer  to  yet  more  valuable 
properties  than  are  in  itself;  and  just  as  no  man 
will  judge  of  the  goodness  of  a  glass  by  the  fineness 
of  the  frame,  so  no  wise  Christian  will  judge  of  a 
sermon  merely  by  the  elegance  of  its  language.  The 
same  writer  likens  the  influence  of  preaching  to  the 
fertility  which  may  be  imparted  by  a  flowing  river, 
fertility  which  may  be  imparted  by  little  and  little 
at  a  time,  and  even  by  unperceived  passages.  It  is 
a  wise  remark  that  it  is  not  always  those  who  re- 
member the  most  of  sermons  to  whom  they  do  most 
good,  even  as  water  retained  in  ponds  makes  not  the 
bottom  flourishing,  but  the  banks  ;  and  the  efficacy 
of  a  sermon  is  better  to  be  collected  from  the  im- 
pression it  has  on  the  understanding  and  the  affec- 
tions, than  from  what  it  leaves  on  the  memory.  We 
would  attempt  to  express  in  these  pages  our  high 
honour  to  all  pulpit  workers  who  have  done  their 
best.  Such  spiritual  energies  as  those  we  are  de- 
scribing do  not  pass  away  ;  they  are  like  lighining 


A   THING  OF  THE  PAST.  185 

flashes.  Does  the  flash  pass  ?  Yes,  but  its  power 
abides  ;  it  has  done  its  work  ;  it  has  electrified  the 
seed,  the  sod,  and  the  soil  ;  it  has  rent  the  cloud, 
and  compelled  it  to  pour  itself  in  rain  ;  the 
grasses,  the  leaves,  and  the  flowers  are  vernal  and 
lovely  because  of  what  the  vanished  lightning  did. 
Departed  men  were  the  instruments  in  the  hand  of 
God  to  bring  about  great  results  ;  "  their  works 
follow  them,"  and  now  they  know  that  they  have 
not  lived  in  vain. 

And  yet  on  platform,  or  in  pulpit,  we  have  no 
eloquence,  as  the  masters  of  the  art  understood  it. 
What  we  do  not  experience  we  find  it  difficult  to 
believe  ;  those  who  have  never  heard  eloquence  find 
it  difficult  to  believe  that  it  ever  was  indeed  heard, 
and  it  is  quite  impossible  to  them  to  realize  or  to 
understand  its  power.  Eloquence,  like  the  highest 
forms  of  poetry,  can  only  be  felt,  or  uttered,  by  the 
tongue  or  heart  of  faith  ;  it  is  the  born  child  of 
belief;  it  is  the  fountain  of  fire  shooting  forth  from 
the  furnace  of  the  soul.  It  may  be  said  that  in  the 
present  age  we  do  not  want  it.  Certain  it  is  we 
have  not  it,  nor  is  it  likely  that  for  some  time  we 
shall  have  it.  And  what  do  we  want  with  poetry, 
or  song,  or  sculpture,  or  painting,  or  architecture  .-* 
Is  it  not  a  world  in  which  man  was  sent  to  buy  and 
to  sell,  and  can  he  not  do  this  quite  as  well  without 
the  fine  arts  nay,  a  great  deal  better }  And,  as  to 
those  erratic  fires  of  human  speech,  how  dangerous 
they  are,  how  much  better  is  the  world  without 
them  than  with  them,  how  much  more  desirable 
is  it  to  live  without  the  neighbourhood  of  those 
passionate   impulses   and   storms,   which   in   ancient 


1 86  BUT  WHA T  IS  ELOQ UENCE ? 

days  shook  human  souls  like  a  tempest  to  utter,  and 
like  a  thunder-peal  to  hear ! 

Besides,  we  have  now  quite  outgrown  eloquence. 
There  is  something  very  humbling  to  us  in  going 
miles  to  hear  a  man  talk  ;  and  there  is  something 
very  humbling  in  the  sensation  of  his  words  tingling 
along  the  blood  ;  his  eye,  his  tyrannic  eye,  fixed 
upon  us,  and  his  words  flowing  over  us,  causing  the 
heavy  perspiration  to  stand  on  our  forehead,  and 
his  ideas  to  arrest  us  with  their  most  uncomfortable 
vastness,  dazzling  the  eye  and  bewildering  the 
brain  ;  his  language,  his  words  of  arrowy  light,  leap- 
ing along  from  chamber  to  chamber  of  our  souls, 
like  lightning  flashing  on  from  cliff  to  cliff,  reveal- 
ing caves  and  grots,  rousing  a  most  unpleasant 
consciousness,  and  somehow  imparting  a  quickened 
action  to  the  blood,  a  new  force  to  the  will,  and,  in 
fact,  taking  up  the  whole  man — nerves,  muscles, 
thoughts,  impulses,  volitions,  actions,  and  setting 
him  down  on  quite  a  different  moral  platform  from 
that  which  he  occupied  before  the  oration  began. 
Of  all  that  we  have  fortunately  rid  ourselves.  It  is 
quite  true  that  speech  gives  mighty  impulses,  but  we 
quite  prefer  the  impulses  of  common -sense,  a  nice, 
quiet,  ordinary  little  routine  world,  to  the  impulses 
and  world  of  eloquence  ! 

Orators  are  very  "  uncomfortable  cousins."  What 
tales  are  told  us  of  their  eyes  glancing  over,  and 
round  an  assembly — eyes  so  full  of  magnetic  power, 
that  they  have  been  said  to  be  like  lightning  and  not 
to  be  withstood — eyes  like  the  eye  of  Pougatscheff* 

*  Turnerelli's  Kazan,  ii.  313. 


ITS  EFFECTS.  187 


— so  dark  and  fiery  that  people  fainted  beneath  its 
lustre !  When  we  read  of  such,  how  fabulous  and 
mythical  it  all  sounds !  Orators  do  not  now  walk 
upon  the  wings  of  the  wind  and  move  aloft  through 
the  vast  vistas  of,  to  them,  a  realised  ideality. 
Orators  in  the  old  time  seemed  to  have  some  strange 
power  over  the  minds  of  men,  because  they  saw 
more  than  others  saw,  and  heard  more  than  others 
heard  ;  they  had  unlocked  the  inscrutable  and  the 
ineffable.  As  we  looked  at  them,  we  felt  that  to 
them  were  visible  waving  and  rustling  robe-folds, 
hidden  from  their  hearers'  eyes  ;  their  words  were 
attuned  to  melodies  which  had  never  sounded  on 
mortals'  ears.  The  orator  was  held  to  be  a  man 
whose  whole  communings  were  of  a  higher  order 
than  those  of  his  audience.  Neither  the  poet 
nor  the  painter  dealt  more  certainly  with  invisible 
forms  and  spiritual  influences  than  he  did.  He  was 
frequently  out  of  sight,  and  men  who  would  see  him 
had  to  look  up,  and  to  look  long,  to  see  clearly  the 
pathway  by  which  he  travelled.  There  were  times 
when  the  orator  seemed  to  shake  from  his  robes  an 
incense  and  a  perfume  over  his  whole  audience, 
when  his  hearers  no  more  knew  the  meanine  of 
much  that  was  said  than  we  know  of  the  meaning  of 
the  notes  that  wander  from  the  organ  down  the 
thrilled  and  palpitating  aisles  of  the  cathedral  ;  but 
they  felt  that  the  surges  and  the  billows  of  his  elo- 
quence carried  them  to  another  world,  that  earth 
seemed  dark  to  them  when  they  touched  its  confines 
again,  that  the  close  of  the  oration  dropped  them 
from  the  gorgeous  pathway  of  the  solar  rays  to  the 
"valley  of  the  shadow  of  death."     How  fortunate  it  is 


BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE ? 


for  us  that  we  have  no  troubles  of  this  sort  now  ! 
Happy  people  !  we  hear  nothing  now  that  we  do  not 
understand  !  Our  teachers  speak  to  the  level  of  our 
common-sense,  and,  for  02ir  benefit,  are  rather  con- 
tent to  lag  behind  us  than  to  mount  before  us. 

Truly  eloquence  is  fallen  into  disesteem  !  It  is 
regarded  as  one  of  the  worthless  baubles  of  the 
infancy  of  the  world.  Men  would  be  rather  ashamed 
to  acknowledge  that  any  word  of  any  orator,  how- 
ever famous,  had  affected  them  at  all.  We  have 
more  good  sense  than  Julius  Caesar :  that  mighty 
conqueror  was  so  subdued  by  the  power  of  Cicero's 
eloquence,  that  he  changed  his  purpose,  and  acquitted 
a  criminal  whom  he  had  determined  to  condemn. 
We  have  now  eloquence  enough  left  to  us  to  criticise, 
and  we  have  taste  enough  to  enable  us  to  act  the 
part  of  critics,  but  we  have  not  eloquence  enough 
left  to  awe  us,  to  inspire  us,  to  subdue  us.  The  orator 
on  whom  we  can  play  the  critic  is  to  us  no  orator : 
the  truest  oratory  is  no  more  matter  for  ordinary  cri- 
ticism than  fire  is  a  substance  for  ordinary  handling. 
What  you  keenly  feel,  you  will  be  little  disposed 
critically  to  dissect.  A  man  beneath  the  influence 
of  some  strong  passions  and  affections — borne  away 
on  a  torrent  of  love — is  little  disposed  to  analyse 
his  emotions  ;  he  recoils  from  the  attempt. 

Eloquence  achieves  nothing  while  we  are  able  to 
say,  "  This  is  eloquence." 

"  Have  I  inadvertently  let  some  bad  thing  slip 
me  ? "  said  old  Phocion  when  once,  in  the  middle  of 
a  speech,  he  was  interrupted  by  unexpected  and 
unusual  applause.  It  was  very  worthy  in  the  grim, 
honest  old  cynic  to  say  it ;  it  is  the  token,  however, 


ST.  BERNARD   OR  DEMOSTHENES  P       189 

of  a  state  of  mind  in  which  eloquence  is  impossible. 
Abandonment  is  the  necessary  condition  of  elo- 
quence,— perfect  abandonment  to  the  subject  in 
hand.  Of  course,  it  will  be  said,  such  a  method  is 
wholly  inconsistent  with  the  idea  of  art  and  prepa- 
ration ;  and  it  must  be  said  again  that  the  highest 
state  of  preparation  is  prepared  z^wpreparedness — 
heart,  mind,  language,  all  well  furnished — a  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  subject,  a  perfect  faith,  a  perfect 
self-possession,  sympathy,  and  loftiness  of  aim,  and 
then — then  let  the  wind  blow  wheresoever  it 
listeth — it  shall  be  given  in  the  same  hour  what 
to  speak  ! 

We  confess  whenever  we  think  of  the  achieve- 
ments of  eloquence  we  are  never  tired  of  contem- 
plating St.  Bernard,  the  last  of  the  Fathers.  We 
confess  to  the  heresy.  We  would  rather  have  heard 
the  Abbot  of  Clairvaux  than  Demosthenes.  Above 
his  eloquence  there  does  seem  to  gather  the  light 
and  might  of  another  world.  Living  in  such  an 
age,  it  would  indeed  be  wonderful  if  all  his  words 
and  deeds  moved  in  unison  with  ours  ;  but  it  is  im- 
possible to  read  either  his  words  or  his  works  and 
not  feel  that  he  possessed  in  a  wonderful  degree  that 
commanding  eloquence  which  will  not  be  resisted, 
which  moves  before  men  like  a  pillar  of  fire  or  a 
pillar  of  cloud,  and  which  they  are  therefore  con- 
strained to  follow.  His  eloquence  was,  without  a 
figure  of  speech,  fascination,  and  his  writings  abound 
with  every  variety  of  eloquence.  A  feeble  and 
insignificant  man,  barons,  clad  in  their  glittering  and 
clanging  steel,  shrank  back  afraid  of  his  tongue. 
Wherever  his  words  alighted  they  fell  with  soft  but 


igo  BUT   WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE ? 

imperative     persuasiveness  ;    they    operated    like    a 
charm  ;  they  wrought  Hke  a  spell.      How  that  fierce 
Duke    William   of  Aquitaine   felt   them  ;  that  stout 
glutton,  that  wild    and    rugged    feudal   lord  ;    cruel, 
vehement,  passionate,  whom  no  man  can  withstand, 
who  is  a  thorn   in  the  sides  of  the   Church  and  of 
Bernard  in    the  cathedral   in  which  he    is  worship- 
ping !      Behold  the  Saint,  descending  from  the  steps 
of  the  altar  with  the  elements  of  the  Lord's  Passion 
in  his  hand,  approaching  the  Duke, — excommunicated 
by  the  Church  as  its  foe  and  tyrant  ; — he  makes  his 
way  through  the  crowd  ;  he  holds  before  the  prince 
the   consecrated    bread,   his   face   irradiated    with    a 
mingled     light     of     indignation     and     compassion. 
"  Twice,"  says  he,  "  already  have  the  servants  of  the 
Lord,  in  united  conference,  supplicated  you,  and  you 
have  despised  them.      Lo  !   now  the   Blessed   Son  of 
the  Virgin,  He  who  is  the  Head  and   Lord  of  the 
Church    which     you     persecute,    appears    to     you ! 
Behold  your   Judge,   at  whose  voice  every  knee  is 
bowed  both  in   heaven  and  on  earth !  the  Judge  to 
whom  you  must  one  day  surrender  your  soul ! — and 
will    you  /eject    Him    as    you    have    rejected    His 
servants  ? "     The  Duke  has  fallen  to  the  ground,  as 
if  smitten  by  epilepsy  ;  he  is  raised  by  his  soldiers, 
and  falls  again  beneath  those  words.      He  gives  the 
Bishop  the  kiss  of  peace  ;  nor  does  the  effect  of  that 
wonderful  hour  appear  to  have  passed  away  ;  that 
moment,  in  that  old  church,  was  not  only  the  hour 
of  dread  and  terror,  but  of  repentance  too.     Was 
not    this  one    of    the    achievements    of  eloquence .? 
Wonderful  being,   St.  Bernard  !  the  great  Christian 
minister  of  his  age  !     We  like  to  look  at  him,  rising 


ACHIEVEMENTS  OF  ST.  BERNARD.       191 

out   of  his  time  as  the  central   man — high  in   the 
midst  of  the  circle  of  popes,  kings,  princes,  bishops, 
and    heresiarchs  ;   but    if   we   had    the    opportunity 
conferred    on    us    to    see    him    and    hear    him,    we 
would  not  choose  the  moment  when,  on  the  sloping 
hills    of    Vezelay,    before    the     King     and     Queen, 
barons    and    bishops,    he   proclaimed    the    Crusades, 
while   all    that   mighty   multitude    rolled    high    their 
words,  in   reply  to  his,  "  It  is  the  will  of  God  !      It 
is  the   will   of  God  ! "      Nor   would   we  choose   the 
moment   when,   in    the    cathedral    church   of    Sens, 
before   the  great    Fathers   of   the    Church,   and    the 
King  Louis  VII.,  he  hushed  the  heresy  or  the  voice 
of     Abelard.     Achievements     of     eloquence     these, 
surely !      But  to  hear  him  every  day  discourse  to  his 
children,  his  brethren  of  the  shades  of  St.  Clairvaux, 
beneath    those    embowering    flowers    and    blossom- 
ing trees,  in  that  secluded  valley,  those  sweet  dis- 
courses on  the  Canticles  which  are  still  with  us,  so 
full    of    devotion,    of    unction,    and    affection,    that 
might  almost  tempt  one  to  a  monastery  too.      Not 
the  less  do  we  love  to  linger  over  that  last  scene  of 
his  life,  when  he  rose  in  haste  from  his  deathbed  to 
stay   the  fury  of  battle   between   the   burghers   and 
barons  of  Metz  ;  to  the  very  battle-field  he  hastened, 
but  found  the  knights  elated  with  victory,  and  refus- 
ing to  listen  to  him,  fearful  of  being  overcome  by 
his     eloquence,     and     he     was     obliged     to     retire. 
"  Nevertheless,"  said  he  to  his  monks,  "  fear  not :  the 
desired   peace  is  at  hand,  although  it   may  be  pre- 
ceded   by    many   difficulties."     And    so,    indeed,    a 
message  speedily  came  from  the  nobles  announcing 
their  change  of  purpose,  and  the  contending  parties 


192  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE ? 

came  and  ended  their  quarrels  by  his  deathbed.  Is 
the  life  of  Bernard  impossible  now  ?  Why  do  not 
the  churches  produce  it?  What !  has  that  well  of 
eloquence  dried  up — that  pure,  natural  fountain — 
that  unchecked  and  perennial  spring  ?  We  need 
the  achievements  of  eloquence  no  less  now  than 
then,  the  freedom  of  over-flowing  souls,  spontane- 
ous in  their  passion  and  their  pathos,  shooting  out 
over  the  world  bright  rays  of  light  from  the  vast 
sun  of  love. 

Oh,  dear  people,  we  are  afraid  we  have  few  men 
of  the  St.  Bernard  school  in  our  pulpits.  How  is  it, 
we  wonder  ,-*  We  talk  much,  but  what  is  the  worth 
of  any  quantity  of  talk  if  it  be  on  stilts  } 

For,  indeed,  in  real  earnestness,  we  must  say 
human  speech  is  not  a  power  to  be  despised  :  and  if 
our  age  have  no  power  to  produce  earnest  tones  of 
deep  and  mighty  bass  pealing  through  the  great 
nave  of  ages  like  those  voices  of  old,  and  if  our  age 
despise  that  power  of  eloquent  speech,  why  so 
much  the  worse  for  us  !  Eloquence  is  one  of  the 
great  moving  forces  of  the  moral  world  ;  it  is  one  of 
the  great  levers  wherewith  God  lifts  human  souls. 
And,  as  all  art,  and  all  aesthetic  taste  is  ennobled  as 
it  becomes  sanctified  by  religion  ;  as  the  mightiest 
architecture  is  Gothic  ;  the  mightiest  poets,  Milton 
and  Dante  ;  the  mightiest  musicians,  Handel  and 
Mozart;  the  mightiest  painter,  Raphael;  the  mightiest 
sculptor,  Michael  Angelo  ;  as  all  art  heaves  with 
the  inspiration  of  greatest  ideas  as  it  approaches  the 
Holy  of  Holies,  and  especially  as  it  approaches 
Calvary  and  the  Cross  :  so  eloquence  is  no  exception 
to  what  indeed  is  the  very  law  of  art.      A  Christian 


SPEECH  NOT  INFERIOR   TO  ANY  ART.     193 

Minister !  Well,  the  work  and  the  task  are  .  as 
glorious  as  they  are  wonderful, — the  unveiling  to 
the  world  the  most  sublime  and  affecting  pictures 
which  can  possibly  engage  human  attention.  When 
the  Bible  and  all  its  subjects  are  fairly  looked  at, 
and  it  is  recollected  that  the  Christian  Minister  is  to 
be  the  exponent  of  the  idea  of  the  Book,  and  of  all 
its  wonderful  epics  of  moral  sublimity,  the  coldness, 
the  tameness,  and  the  insipidity  of  Pulpit  exposition 
are  only  less  marvellous  than  the  subjects  the 
teachers  are  called  to  discuss.  But  surely  warm 
love  and  earnest  faith  would  create  a  high  order  of 
eloquence  anywhere,  and  on  any  tongue.  Elo- 
quence,— moulded  by  the  character  of  the  possessor 
of  it — in  some  deep  and  penetrative,  in  others 
sounding  and  soaring — in  any  case  eloquence.  Oh  ! 
if  we  could  speak  to  ministers  and  teachers,  surely 
we  would  say,  Have  faith  in  human  speech.  Human 
speech,  when  it  flows  from  an  earnest  and  harmo- 
nious spiritual  life,  is  one  of  the  most  powerful 
agents  God  has  sent  into  the  world.  It  is  inferior 
to  no  art,  for  it  may  embody  and  comprehend  every 
art ;  it  is  statuary  in  the  body,  it  is  painting  on  the 
tongue ;  epic,  or  dramatic,  it  may  hold  and  embody 
both,  and  enchant  the  passions  of  entranced  auditors 
equally  with  music  and  song.  Men  possess  this 
august  and  magnetic  power,  and  affect  to  despise  it  ; 
and  use  it,  without  responsibility  and  preparation,  when 
this  power  would  transfix  human  hearts  like  a  target, 
and  make  human  ears  tingle  and  human  spirits  tremble. 
It  is  amazing  how  men  will  underrate  the  value 
of  oral  instruction,  and  how  they  will  hit  on  the 
wrong  method,  and  argue  all  time  and  all  eternity 

13 


194  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE? 

out  of  countenance  that  it  is  the  right  plan.  Once 
for  all,  it  ought  to  be  understood  that  the  man  who 
is  a  teacher  by  the  tongue  is  expected  to  do  some- 
thing with  truth,  and  for  truth,  that  cannot  be  done 
by  any  other  form  or  method. 

Our  friend,  the  Rev,  Octavian  Symphony,  constructs 
all  his  sermons  on  the  plan  of  Addison's  Essays, 
very  nice  little  performances.  And  he  goes  into  his 
pulpit,  and  reads  his  rounded  com.position,  beautifully 
written  in  ink  made  of  Attic  milk  and  water,  to  his 
congregation,  over  whom  it  all  falls  like  the  buzzing 
of  noontide  bees.  Our  friend,  the  Rev.  Euclid  Birch, 
laughs  heartily  at  Octavian.  "  Facts  and  logic," 
says  he,  "  these  are  the  staple  matters  of  the  spiritual 
kingdom:"  and  so  he  entertains  his  people  with 
hard  dialectic  gradgrindings,  and  fancies  he  has 
changed  the  heart  when  he  has  bayoneted  an 
unbeliever  into  a  corner.  Meantime,  the  Rev. 
Eusebius  Polyglott  laughs  at  both  his  brethren,  and 
says,  "  How  ridiculous  is  the  rhetoric  of  the  one,  and 
the  logic  of  the  other ! "  Eusebius  entertains  his 
audience  with  translations  "  from  the  original,"  and 
allusions  to  the  Grecian  Games,  and  the  "  Oriental 
customs,"  And  we  cannot  sometimes  help  laughing 
at  them  all.  As  to  elegant  essays,  we  can  read  them 
at  home, — better  essays  than  Octavian  can  compose. 
Logic  is  very  well,  but  it  is  very  wearisome  ;  it  is 
expended,  as  has  been  said,  on  killing  dead  giants. 
And  criticism  is  very  well  too,  but  bad  stuff  to  feed 
on.  We  want  a  man  who  will  do  for  us  what  books 
cannot, — mingle  rhetoric  and  logic  in  one,  and  turn 
a  criticism  into  a  painting.  Books  are  dead,  the 
roal  teacher  should  be  all  alive.     He  is  to  be  neither 


PL  A  USIBILITY  THE  CURSE  OF  THE  PULPIT.  195 

a  professor  of  logic  nor  a  professor  of  belles-lettres. 
He  is  to  temper,  in  his  teaching,  light  and  fire.  He 
is  to  recollect,  as  Demosthenes  recollected,  that  the 
audience  is  impatient  of  chains  of  reasoning.  He 
must  show  the  result  at  the  end  of  the  links  without 
exhibiting  the  chain  ;  and  only  allow  his  audience 
rest,  or  repose  in  order  to  rouse  sympathy,  sensibility, 
conscience,  admiration,  more  fully,  and  show  himself  a 
workman  needing  not  to  be  ashamed. 

Plausibility  is  the  curse  of  the  pulpit,  as  it  is  the 
curse  of  everything  it  touches  ;  it  is  the  shibboleth 
of  meanness ;  it  is  the  everlasting  hymn  in  the 
mouth  of  the  moral  huckster  and  Cheap  John  of  the 
platform  ;  it  is  the  last  outcome  of  the  twopenny- 
halfpenny  faculty.  Plausibility  is  always  a  sweet 
refreshing  ice  to  impatient  and  passionate  souls  ;  it 
is  the  logic  of  rationalism  ;  it  always  brushes  the 
bloom  from  the  peach,  and  holds  up  a  prism  to  the 
rainbow  ;  it  never  will  accept  beauty  without  dissect- 
ing it  ;  it  is  ever  engaged  in  giving  its  bald,  shallow, 
reasonless  reasons  for  things  ;  it  has  no  mystery  and 
no  ideal  ;  it  will  account  for  love  and  faith  by  the 
motions  of  the  blood,  and  finds  the  Divine  wonders 
of  heaven  and  hell  to  be  only  the  dizziness  of  the 
soul.  This  is  the  miserable  ghost  that  has  haunted 
and  terrified  so  many  of  our  modern  preachers  ! 
This  plausibility,  this  pleasing  everybody,  and  satis- 
fying everybody, — sublime  wish,  gratifying  altitude, 
smiled  upon  by  the  Trinitarian,  patted  on  the  back 
by  the  Unitarian  !  believed  in  by  the  Pantheist,  and 
beloved  by  the  Christian  !  Surely  this  is  catholic 
teaching ;  and  would  not  Moses,  and  Elijah,  and 
Paul,  stare  at  it  in  Christian  men  ? 


196  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE? 

But  it  must  not  be  forgotten,  that  not  only  all 
men  are  not  fitted  to  be  preachers,  but  that  it  must 
certainly  be  the  case  that  there  will  be  always  many 
men  in  the  pulpit  who  will  not  be  fitted  for  preachers 
to  the  masses  of  the  people  ;  men  whose  thoughts 
and  words  move  heavily,  like  the  tramp  of  an 
elephant  through  a  forest ;  powerful  men,  invaluable 
men,  but  men  without  any  tact,  perhaps  without  any 
humour,  or  much  sympathy  ;  linguists,  logicians, 
mathematicians,  psychologists.  John  Foster  could 
never  have  been  an  attractive  preacher.  It  ought  to 
be  easy  to  find  for  such  men  an  assistant,  for  they 
serve  the  world  as  well  as  the  lighter  and  more 
aerial  forces  ;  or  perhaps  to  find  them  posts  in  the 
larger  towns,  where  an  audience  disposed  to  appre- 
ciate might  be  secured  ;  or  perhaps  to  appoint  them 
to  some  dusty  library,  where  their  powers  of  digestion 
might  be  satisfied  in  the  dietary  of  books.  It  is  not 
desirable  to  see  many  such  men  in  the  ordinary 
ministry  ;  for  its  functions  are  certainly  not  those  of 
a  curator  of  a  museum,  nor  a  librarian,  nor  a  pro- 
fessor, but  a  warm,  active,  sympathising  nature,  full 
of  energy,  intelligence,  and  sympathy. 

In  the  ancient  world  no  man  was  thought  worthy 
of  a  post  of  distinguished  honour,  unless  he  could 
acquit  himself  well  as  a  speaker  in  public.  The 
public  speaker  absorbed  all  other  qualifications  and 
all  other  excellences  ;  no  work  of  genius  was  thought 
to  require  such  great  parts  and  capacity  as  the  speak- 
ing in  public.  All  that  is  dead  now,  as  dead  as  a 
sentiment ;  the  office  of  speaker  commands  more 
attention  than  the  speech,  and  all  the  great  swelling 
and  heaving  sentiments  which  inflamed  the  eloquence 


**THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  PREACHINGS      197 

of  the  ancients,  now  would  be  regarded  only  as  so 
much  bombast  and  clap-trap.  Those  spoken  poems, 
in  which  the  orator  laid  all  nature  under  contribution 
and  command,  while  the  pinions  of  his  language 
and  imagination  dared  and  dazzled,  and  every 
gorgeous  image  stood  forth,  in  its  mighty  and  vast 
proportions,  dilating  over  the  awed  and  enraptured 
assembly :  these  are  things  of  which  we  hear  in 
legend  and  tradition,  but  they  seem  to  have  faded 
from  human  knowledge.  Nothing  can  kindle  them. 
We  seldom  rise  beyond  the  dead  level  of  common 
sense  ;  our  preachers  can  seldom  rise  into  eloquence, 
even  when  near  the  Cross  of  Christ. 

For  ever  the  same,  the  preaching  of  the  Cross  is 
to  them  that  perish  foolishness.  Yet  of  all  the 
achievements  of  eloquence,  is  there  any  like  that 
foolishness?  Can  there  be  any  achievement  like  that 
which  is  its  one  great  object  ?  For,  whatever  may 
be  the  object  of  the  hearer  of  the  Word,  and  whatever 
may  be  the  object  of  the  preacher  of  the  Word,  only 
one  can  be  really  acknowledged  as  legitimate,  the 
turning  of  the  heart  to  God  ;  and  this  is  so  wonderful 
that  the  Scriptural  phraseology,  "  foolishness  of 
preaching,"  is  literally  correct.  Amazing  that  a  man 
should  be  such  a  medium,  that  any  human  creature 
should  be  an  agent  at  all  in  so  stupendous  an  event ! 
It  is  amazing  that  there  should  be  power  in  man  to 
turn  the  current  of  human  opinion  at  all !  Amazing 
to  think  what  has  from  time  to  time  been  the  conse- 
quence of  spoken  words  !  Amazing  to  think  what 
Avords  have  been  spoken  !  The  orations  of  Demo- 
sthenes on  the  Crown  ;  the  impeachment  of  Hast- 
ings   by  Burke  and    by   Sheridan  I     Very  amazing 


198  B UT  WHA T  IS  ELOQ UENCE ? 

was  the  power  of  the  golden-mouthed  Chrysostom, 
who,  when  he  preached  in  the  early  church,  was 
greeted  with  clapping,  stamping,  shouting,  and 
leaping,  the  waving  of  robes,  garments,  and  plumes, 
and  the  cry  of  "  Hail !  worthy  of  the  priesthood  ! 
thirteenth  Apostle  !  Christ  hath  sent  thee  !  "  Very 
wonderful  were  the  words  of  the  Friar  Narni,  a 
Capuchin,  so  remarkable  for  his  eloquence  that  his 
hearers,  after  a  sermon,  cried  out  for  mercy  in  the 
streets  as  he  passed  along  to  his  home  ;  and  thirty 
bishops,  starting  up  under  a  discourse,  hastened 
away  to  their  respective  dioceses.  We  have  thou- 
sands of  incidents  like  these  on  record,  but,  beyond 
them  all,  must  ever  be  reckoned  the  amazing  fact 
that  words  may  so  influence  human  emotion  and 
human  thought,  that  the  careless  heart  shall  be 
arrested  in  its  folly,  and  the  spirit,  drifting  to  perdi- 
tion, be  'attracted  back  to  God  !  It  is  amazing — a 
human  voice  on  the  headland  of  time  attracting  and 
fascinating  a  spirit  to  a  happy  eternity ! 

The  pulpit  needs  more  of  moral  force.*  Preachers 
are  afraid  of  force  in  the  pulpit.  There  is  no  real 
eloquence  without  force — vehemence.  The  calmest 
flow  of  the  river  needs  somewhere  the  rush  of  the 
tide,  or  the  cataract,  to  give  it  health  and  beauty. 
Vehemence  or  force  is  as  compatible  with  tender- 
ness as  with  denunciation  ;  it  is  as  constituent  a 
part  of  the  tear  of  love  as  the  tear  of  terror.  The 
invective  of  Chatham,  the  pause  of  Patrick  Henry, 
the  gorgeousness  of  Burke,  the  strength  of  Webster, 
the  march  of  Fox,  all  bear  testimony  to  the  same 

*See  a  very  able  article  on  the  American  Pulpit,  Bibliotheca 
Sacra,  vol.  iv.,  No.  14. 


TWO   GOSPELS. 


199 


truth — that  the  force  in  your  own  mind  is  the  secret 
of  your  command  over  the  minds  of  others.  The 
force  of  speech,  balanced  and  held  by  the  great  laws 
of  mind  and  character,  is  the  oxygen  of  the  whole 
composition.  It  is  the  purifying  wind ;  it  is  the 
tidal  stream  ;  and  if  you  cannot  put  force  of  some 
kind  into  your  speech,  it  can  have  no  character,  and 
you  can  never  be  a  speaker. 

"  Our  fathers  cast  their  works  in  brass,  we  scrape 
ours  upon  glass."  So  says  the  Viscount  de  Cor- 
menin  in  his  commentary  on  the  eloquence  of 
Mirabeau ;  but  that  order  of  eloquence,  however 
great  its  achievements,  is  an  order  we  never  desire 
to  see  produced  or  reproduced  in  the  pulpit.  We 
are  persuaded  that  eloquence  in  the  pulpit  misses  its 
appropriate  field  and  method,  when  it  becomes  a 
cataract  of  fire  shooting  forth  from  the  intellectual- 
ised,  but  still  selfish  animalism  of  the  orator.  Such  is 
not  its  work — far  different  indeed.  True,  our 
English  pulpit  has  not  had  many  such  men  ;  the 
fewer  the  better.  It  may  be  almost  questioned 
whether  that  stormy  and  boisterous  eloquence  ever 
effects  anything  in  the  long  run  for  the  cause  of 
truth  and  holiness.  Certainly  it  can  only  effect  this 
by  the  Word  of  deeper  power  beneath  it.  Still  let 
it  be  s^rid  the  world  has  two  gospels — the  gospel  of 
sound  and  the  gospel  of  silence.  George  Fox  was, 
truly  enough,  the  apostle  of  the  first,  as  really  as 
Whitefield  was.  Isaac  Pennington  was  the  apostle 
of  the  last,  not  more  than  Madame  Guyon.  That 
preacher  is  indeed  powerful  who  can  stand  in  his 
pulpit,  as  in  the  cleft  of  Horeb,  and  make  his  people 
alternately    shiver    with    the    strong   wind    and    the 


200  BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE ? 

rushing  flame,  but  shall  rely,  for  the  fulness  of  his 
power,  on  the  utterances  of  the  still  small  voice. 
There  is  a  lower  nature  in  man  to  be  preached  to, 
as  well  as  a  higher.  Perhaps  there  is  a  deep 
meaning  in  that  ancient  superstition  of  the  Romish 
Church  that  the  devil  once  entered  into  a  monk, 
and  appeared  in  his  form  in  soine  of  the  cities  of 
Italy,  and  preached  with  an  effect  so  marvellous  that 
amazing  conversions  followed  his  mysterious  minis- 
trations. No  doubt  it  is  often  the  case  that  to  reach 
the  highest,  preachers  must  aim  at  the  lowest. 
They  will  frequently  find  the  spiritual  man,  and 
strike  him,  while  they  are  aiming  at  the  carnal  man. 
It  is  our  low  and  animal  nature  that  demands  a 
speech  more  proportioned  with  its  present  degrada 
tion  than  its  possible  dignity. 

Our  readers  have  not  forgotten  the  fable  by  which 
Luther  rebuked  some  of  the  hearers  of  his  day. 
The  lion  made  a  great  feast  to  all  the  animals,  and, 
among  others,  invited  some  swine.  The  lion  pro- 
vided for  them  all  manner  of  dainties  ;  but  the  pigs, 
when  they  were  set  before  the  dainties,  asked  for 
grains.  It  is  of  no  use  attempting  to  feed  a  being 
beyond  its  ideal,  and  beyond  its  power  of  digestion. 
Our  friend,  the  Rev.  Tennyson  Tasso,  has  been  for 
years  entertaining  his  people  with  panoramas-  of  the 
loftiest  Himalayan  chains  of  thought  and  language. 
We  are  sure  many  of  his  people  have  wanted  more 
grains. 

May  we,  in  closing  this  chapter,  refer  to  a  tender 
reminiscence  in  our  own  spiritual  life  }  Some  years 
since,  one  well-remembered  evening,  we  went  into 
the  Fraiien  Kirche  in  Copenhagen,  the  chief  church 


THORWALDSEN'S  "CHRIST.**  201 

there,  the  Lutheran  cathedral.  The  church  was 
crowded  ;  an  eminent  preacher  was  in  the  pulpit. 
The  service,  very  simple,  was  much  the  same  as  our 
Congregational  form  :  reading  the  Scripture,  prayer, 
and  congregational  singing.  We  could  find  no  pew, 
no  seat  at  liberty.  We  were  compelled  to  sit  on 
the  steps  of  the  altar.  Over  the  altar  was  the 
world  renowned  figure  of  Christ  by  Thorvvaldsen — 
Thorwaldsen,  originally  a  poor  boy,  and  the  son  of 
a  poor  boat-builder  of  Jutland,  who  became  the 
greatest  sculptor  of  the  Christian  ages.  That  church 
is  full  of  that  ineffable  figure.  Thorwaldsen  wrought 
it  in  his  old  age,  and  gave  it  to  the  church,  wrought 
it  in  marble,  and  devoted  it,  and  the  twelve  colossal 
apostles  surrounding  the  church,  to  the  idea  of 
Christianity.  We  sat  there,  over  us  the  figure  of 
Christ,  the  most  wonderful  figure  of  Christ,  the 
most  satisfying  we  had  ever  seen  in  marble 
or  on  canvas.  The  great  artist  intended  to  re- 
present Him  as  saying,  as  the  pedestal  testifies, 
"  Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy- 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  The  figure  of 
Christ  is  about  fourteen  feet  in  height  ;  but  its 
'colossal  proportions  in  no  way  disturb  the  sense  of 
jnity,  awe,  and  majesty.  The  figures  of  the  twelve 
apostles  are  scarcely  smaller.  We  could  not  follow 
the  sermon,  which  was  in  Danish,  but  certainly 
eloquent ;  but  our  heart  was  awed  within  us.  We 
sat  beneath  the  figure  of  the  Christ !  we  looked 
up  to  the  Christ !  and  thought  of  that  young  Man, 
the  reputed  carpenter's  Son,  His  three  years'  ministry, 
and  to  whose  praise  now,  after  all  the  ages  have 
passed,  this  building  was  dedicated,  this  mighty  piece 


BUT  WHAT  IS  ELOQUENCE ? 


of  art  devoted,  and  the  magnificent  Te  Deum,  swell- 
ing, "  Thou  art  the  King  of  glory,  O  Christ !  " 
But  on  the  dais,  leading  to  the  altar,  is  the  font, 
held  by  an  entreating  Angel.  She,  the  Angel  of 
Baptism  and  Invitation,  is  holding  the  font  in  the 
presence  of  the  whole  congregation.  This  is  by  the 
same  mighty  artist,  and  also  in  marble  ;  and  we  saw 
that  as,  in  the  figure  over  us,  he  had  seized  the  whole 
idea  of  the  Christ — "  Come  unto  Me  " — so,  in  the 
figure  of  the  angel,  he  had  seized  the  whole  idea  of 
the  Church,  and  that  the  Angel  of  Baptism  was  also 
the  Angel  of  Invitations,  and  that  the  idea  was  of  the 
whole  Church  entreating  the  world  to  come  to  Christ — 
the  Christ  over  here  as  the  Spirit,  and  she  there  the 
human  pleader.  She  seemed,  in  her  spotless  and 
wonderful  beauty,  to  put  into  transcendent  life  and 
action  the  words  of  the  text,  "  The  Spirit  and  the 
Bride  say.  Cornel"  The  Bride  says,  Coniei  It  seemed 
to  us  as  if  the  artist  had  gone  beyond  most  theolo- 
gians, beyond  most  preachers,  and  had  seized  the 
true  idea  of  the  Church — that  the  Church  is  the 
Angel  of  Invitations,  that  the  Church  exists  not  to 
denounce,  not  to  anathematise,  not  to  make  creeds, 
but,  with  a  tender  heart  and  beseeching  eye  and  lip, 
to  persuade  men  to  come  to  Christ.  She  only 
exists  for  one  purpose — to  set  forth,  and  to  call  men 
to  Christ !  Her  voice,  the  voice  of  the  true  Bride,  is 
not  one  of  denunciation  ;  it  is  not  the  voice  of 
petulance,  of  quarrel,  nor  of  recrimination  ;  it  is  the 
voice  of  gentle  and  pitiful  expostulation.  "  Come 
unto  Me,"  says  Christ,  "  and  I  will  give  you  rest,"  and 
the  Bride  says.  Come  ! 

Everything    in    the    Christian   religion     turns    to 


THE    VOICE   OF  TNVITA  TION.  203 

invitation,  but  how  shall  they  hear  without  a 
preacher  to  say,  "  The  Master  is  come,  and  calleth  for 
thee  "  ?  and  the  preacher  should  feel  that  the  highest 
dignity  to  which  he  can  attain  is  to  be  one  of  those 
of  whom  it  is  written,  "Let  him  that  heareth  say. 
Come."  The  Bride,  the  Church,  often  seems  to  be 
unseen,  or  she  is  like  the  firmament  above  our  heads, 
of  unattainable  and  impersonal  height.  One  day, 
let  us  hope,  we  also  may  be  lost  in  the  immensity 
of  its  pure  splendour.  The  angel  is  unseen,  but 
penetrating  all  things  with  her  province  and  her 
power.  "  I  Jesus  have  sent  my  angel !  "  We  cannot 
doubt  the  voice  of  the  winds,  and  we  cannot  doubt 
that  over  the  world  flows  the  voice  of  invitation. 
There  is  an  angel  flying  in  the  midst  of  heaven, 
having  the  everlasting  gospel  to  preach,  and  the 
gospel  is  a  voice  of  invitations  saying,  "  Come  !  "  and 
the  preacher  realizes  the  beauty  and  the  blessedness 
of  his  work  most  purely  and  gloriously  when  he 
separates  himself  in  order  to  regard  himself  as  a 
whisper  of  the  voice  of  the  Bride  saying,  Come ! 
He  can  go  no  further.  "  The  Spirit  and  the  Bride 
say,  Come  !  "* 

*  This  reminiscence  has  also  been  referred  to  in  "The  Day, 
the  Book,  and  the  Teacher."  By  Edwin  Paxton  Hood.  Sunday 
School  Union. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

CHRYSOSTOM :    THE  THRONE  IN  THE  EARLY 
CHURCH. 

IN  the  review  of  the  march  and  procession  of  the 
early  Church  it  can  never  be  either  a  needless 
or  indifferent  task  to  study  again,  or,  in  some  new- 
portrait,  to  seek  to  retouch,  or  bring  into  greater 
vividness,  the  subhme  features  of  its  first  fathers, 
whose  words,  while  they  were  living,  were  like  battle- 
cries  against  the  idolatry,  selfishness,  and  impurity 
of  the  age,  and  which,  although  the  tongue  of  fire 
has  long  been  resolved  into  dust,  retain  still  an 
inspiring,  and  even  vocal  power.  The  orators  and 
preachers  form  a  very  illustrious  gallery  of  portraits  ; 
there  is  much  about  them  that  is  very  exemplary. 
As  we  study  their  words  and  deeds,  we  find,  in  truth, 
how  much,  perhaps,  they  owed  of  their  fame  and 
influence  to  that  close  union  and  alliance  of  the 
destinies  of  the  Church  with  the  State,  which  con- 
tinued so  manifest  after  the  period  of  Constantine. 
But  it  may  surely  be  questioned  whether  their 
influence  at  court  did  not  result  also  from  the 
immense  power  they  wielded  over  the  multitudes 
of  the  cities  by  the  purity  of  Christian  doctrine. 
The  reader  of  Church  history  will  very  soon  assure 
himself  how   the  rise  of  the   Church   illustrated  its 


PREACHERS   OF  THE  EARLY  CHURCH.     205 

power  by  the  "  foolishness  of  preaching,"  and  the 
pulpit  became  a  great  social  influence.  The  wonder 
grows  upon  us  how  it  came  to  be  the  mighty  and 
hostile  force  it  exhibits  itself  as  being  ;  but  the  study 
of  the  character  of  the  early  Christian  preachers 
explains  this.  The  school  of  the  rhetorician  was 
changed  into  the  Church,  the  place  of  souls  ;  not 
the  place  for  the  discussion  of  trivial  questions,  the 
vain  spoils  of  philosophy,  it  was  a  new  moral  power 
in  the  world.  Those  men  did  not  obtain  their 
mighty -^lold  over  the  breathless  multitudes  by  the 
"disputations  of  science,  falsely  so  called";  not  by 
pretty  little  Platonic  essays  ;  but  by  words  which 
clave  a  way  right  down  to  the  soul  ;  enforcing  the 
providence  of  God,  the  redemption  by  Christ,  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  and  future  retribution  and 
judgment;  these  were  the  themes.  Fantastic  legends 
and  literatures  faded  out,  or  fell  prostrate  and  power- 
less before  such  truths,  flowing  from  the  consciousness 
of  the  speaker,  informed  by  the  Holy  Ghost  and  the 
Divine  Word,  and  flaming  from  the  ardent  light  of 
vivid  experience.  The  bar,  the  senate,  the  school, 
could  kindle  no  such  enthusiasm,  and  win  no  such 
echoes  and  responses  as  those  which  followed  the 
words   of  the  great  teachers  of  those  early  ages. 

It  is  superfluous  to  say  that  modern  teachers  have 
not  paid  sufficient  attention  to  these  great  masters. 
A  prejudice,  it  must  be  now  admitted  very  un- 
founded, has  obtained  entrance  in  many  minds  against 
them.  This  prejudice  is  dissolving ;  and  while  it  is 
the  duty,  especially,  of  every  minister  to  inform  him- 
self of  the  matters  in  the  great  story  of  the  Church, 
it  is  certainly  true  that  he  will  find  in  the  first  ages, 


205  CHRYSOSTOM. 


and  among  the  teachers  of  the  third,  fourth,  and  fifth 
centuries,  hints  eminently  useful  to  him  in  assailing 
the  sins  and  the  heresies  of  our  own  times.  Especially 
pre-eminent,  as  the  orator  of  the  Church,  stands 
forth  John,  the  great  preacher  of  Antioch,  who 
received,  in  the  fourth  century,  the  name  by  which 
now  he  is  only  known  popularly,  Chrysostom,  or  the 
Golden  Montli.  He  was  born,  in  that  city  over 
which  his  eloquence  shed  such  lustre,  and  amidst  the 
uproars  and  agitations  of  which  he  became  so  central 
an  actor,  in  the  year  354.  His  parentage  was 
distinguished  ;  his  father,  Secundus,  a  chief  general 
of  the  army  of  Syria,  died  soon  after  John  was  born ; 
his  motlier,  Secunda — not  unlike  Augustine's  gentle 
Monica — although,  hke  his  father,  a  Gentile  pagan, 
continued  unmarried  after  the  death  of  her  husband, 
living  for  her  son,  as  we  gather  from  an  immortal 
passage  of  exquisite  beauty  in  his  writings.  She 
appears  to  have  been  a  woman  of  great  gravity, 
beauty,  and  chastity.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  Chry- 
sostom was  placed,  apparently,  beneath  the  tuition 
of  the  great  Libanius,  a  chief  master  of  rhetoric  ; 
from  him,  no  doubt,  he  obtained  lessons  used  with 
very  different  purposes  from  those  for  which  they 
were  given,  for  John  became  a  Christian,  grew 
weary  of  what  seemed  to  him  the  unprofitable  study 
of  rhetoric  ;  and  the  lessons  intended  to  make  the 
shining  orator  of  the  bar  went  to  furnish  the  priest, 
the  preacher,  and  father  of  the  Church.  It  was  a 
source  of  bitter  regret  to  his  old  master,  and  on  his 
death-bed  he  grieved  that  there  was  no  successor  to 
his  school,  because  the  Christians  had  stolen  John 
from  him. 


COMPARED    WITH  AUGUSTINE.  207 

About  the  early  history  of  Chrysostom  and  the 
years  before  his  conversion,  there  is  nothing  of  that 
wonderful  interest  which  attaches  to  the  unconverted 
life  of  Augustine.  Chrysostom  had  not  the  same 
sensuous  and  passionate  nature,  therefore  had  not  so 
fierce  a  conflict  to  wage  with  himself ;  he  had  not 
the  same  great  roominess  of  nature  as  that  of  the 
Bishop  of  Hippo,  in  whose  soul,  before  his  conver- 
sion, every  sort  and  kind  of  heresy  and  infidelity 
seemed,  at  one  time  or  other,  to  find  not  a  moment- 
ary, but  a  logical  lodgment,  until  all  were  put  to 
flight,  as  he  tells  us  in  his  immortal  "  Confessions." 
Then  Chrysostom  had  not  very  long  passed  youth 
when  he  was  converted  ;  Augustine,  on  the  contrary, 
was  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  in  all  the  vigour  of  his 
studies.  Chrysostom  had  never  known  the  ways  of 
vice  and  sin  ;  the  warm  African  nature  of  Augustine 
had  known  every  seduction  of  poetry  and  passion  ; 
he  had  to  put  away  the  person  he  very  tenderly 
loved,  apparently  ;  and  we  know  in  what  terms  he 
has  celebrated  and  made  memorable  his  affection  for 
his  illegitimate  son,  Adeodatus.  But  the  conversion 
of  Chrysostom  was  marked  by  a  reality  as  distinct 
as  that  of  Augustine  ;  he  and  his  friend  Basil — 
evidently  not  the  great  bishop — determined  on 
abandoning  the  world  altogether,  and  flying  to  the 
monastery.  This  was  easy  for  Basil,  who  had  no 
worldly  ties,  but  Chrj'sostom  had  debts  to  pay  to  his 
position,  and  his  property,  and,  above  all,  to  his 
mother,  whose  tender  and  overwhelming  appeal  has 
been  preserved  to  us.  She  reminded  him  of  all  her 
troubles  and  miseries  in  widowhood,  all  the  agita- 
tions   and    disquietudes    attending    her — a    young 


2o8  CHRYSOSTOM. 

woman,  without  a  husband — but  all  borne  for  his 
sake  ;  how  she  was  tossed  in  storm  and  tempest, 
determined  "  not  to  bring  a  second  husband  into 
your  father's  house  "  ;  not  declining  the  hardships  of 
the  iron  furnace  that,  as  she  says,  "  I  might  daily 
behold  yoitr  face  while  you  were  an  infant,  and  have 
continually  before  me  the  image,  the  character,  and 
resemblance  of  your  father."  She  implored  him  not 
to  involve  her  in  a  second  widowhood.  "  When  you 
have  committed  me  to  the  ground,  travel  whither 
you  please."  Many  more  words  to  the  same  effect 
the  poor  mother  poured  out  into  the  ear  and  heart 
of  her  son.  We  are  afraid  that  she  did  not  produce 
so  much  effect  upon  him  as  circumstances  did.  It 
is  a  proof  of  the  importance  of  Chrysostom  in 
Antioch  that  at  this  time,  although  he  could  not 
have  been  much  more  than  twenty  years  of  age,  and 
had  not  been  very  long  converted,  a  report  was 
spread  that  the  Church  was  about  to  elevate  him  to 
the  office  of  bishop.  Our  readers  will  bear  in  mind 
the  immense  difference  between  our  idea  of  a  bishop 
and  that  of  the  early  Christians.  He  fled  from  the 
city,  going  for  some  time  to  reside  among  the  monks 
near  Antioch.  Of  his  mother  we  only  hear  that  she 
died  shortly  afterwards  ;  it  does  not  seem  probable 
that  he  really  joined  the  monks  until  after  that 
event.  The  beautiful,  chaste,  self-denying  pagan 
lady  never  saw  the  greatness  and  glory  of  her  son. 
She  never  heard  any  of  those  marvellous  orations, 
did  not  know  that  the  lips  which  had  been  so  much 
to  her, — kissed  so  fondly  and  so  often,  as  mothers  only 
can  kiss, — were  through  all  after-ages  to  be  called 
the  golden.     She  soon  passes  out  of  sight,  but  as- 


SOLITUDE  AS  A    TRAINING  FOR    WORK.    209 

suredly  her  son  did  her  justice,  and  treasured  her 
memory.  The  name  and  memory  of  Monica  have 
been  held  very  dear  in  church  history  ;  but  let  us, 
as  we  pass  by,  look  lovingly  and  tenderly  upon, 
and  set  a  fair  white  lily  over  the  grave  of  Secunda. 
Six  years  Chrysostom  continued  among  the 
mountains  and  the  monasteries  ;  for  some  time 
he  dwelt  in  a  cave  with  an  aged  hermit  ;  solitary, 
shut  up  in  a  still  more  lonely  cell,  he  spent  some 
other  two  years,  taking  little  rest,  pondering  closely 
the  Word,  conversing  with  himself ;  seeking  out 
that  he  might  obtain  the  grace  of  spiritual  strength 
to  scatter,  and  rout,  and  put  to  flight  the  sins 
lurking  in  his  nature.  He  seems  to  have  been 
ordained  by  the  Bishop  Miletius  as  a  reader  and 
deacon  of  the  Church  in  Antioch  about  the  year  381. 
He  returned  to  the  city,  learned  and  accomplished 
in  every  art  and  gift  necessary  to  the  sacred  orator. 
When  he  left,  he  was  an  accomplished  rhetorician  ; 
and  we  can  well  conceive  what  effect  six  years  of 
solitude  among  the  mountains,  with  no  other  book 
than  the  Sacred  Word,  would  have  upon  a  nature 
able  to  receive  it.  The  moment  soon  came  when 
his  mighty  oratory  was  put  forth  with  all  its 
vehemence  and  strength.  So  long  as  he  continued 
in  Antioch  his  voice  was  like  a  bell,  chiming  or 
tolling,  and  certainly  the  sonorous  tones  of  the  knell 
predominate  over  the  silvery  notes  of  the  chime. 
Among  the  most  intrepid  and  noble  of  his  orations 
is  the  series  on  The  Statues.  Oppressed  and  harassed 
by  taxation,  the  people  of  Antioch, — naturally  a 
turbulent  and  unquiet  race, — rose  in  tumult  and 
uproar  against  a  warrant  for  a  new  assessment.      It 

14 


210  CHRYSOSTOM. 


created  no  small  irritation ;  they  encouraged  one 
another  to  revolt,  until,  in  the  turmoil  of  the  streets, 
the  brazen  statues  of  the  Emperor  and  his  wife 
Flavilla  were  torn  down,  and  dragged  ignominiously 
by  ropes,  with  insolent  rudeness  and  bitter  sarcasm, 
through  the  city.  Scarcely  had  the  deed  been 
done  than  all  the  inhabitants  were  in  mourning  and 
fear.  In  our  country  and  age  such  an  indignity 
would  very  likely  produce  unhappy  results  ;  what 
then  might  be  expected  in  the  very  era  of  imperial 
cruelty  ?  Fear  spread  on  every  hand  ;  those  who 
could  fly  the  city  fled  ;  those  who  were  taken  were 
hurried  off  to  prison.  The  forum,  a  few  days  before 
crowded,  was  deserted,  and,  here  and  there,  a  few 
frightened  and  trembling  people  might  be  seen 
skulking  about  with  dejected  looks.  Images  of 
confiscation,  death,  and  worse  than  death,  were 
before  all  men's  eyes.  In  the  panic  the  good 
Bishop  Flavianus  took  upon  himself  to  go  as  an 
ambassador  of  peace  to  the  Emperor.  It  was  winter; 
he  was  aged,  and  a»man  of  many  infirmities.  The 
distance  was  considerable ;  his  sister,  too,  was  dying ; 
but  he  went.  Chrysostom  was  left  in  the  mourning 
city  ;  he  walked  through  it,  and  saw  its  profound 
distress,  its  silence  only  broken  by  the  armed 
guards,  with  swords  and  spears  resisting  the  wailing 
women  and  children  who  were  seeking  to  throng 
the  courts  of  justice  to  save  their  husbands  and 
fathers.  While  the  Bishop  was  on  his  way  to  the 
metropolis,  Chrysostom  called  the  people  daily  to 
the  church  ;  there,  in  their  agitated  and  trembling 
midst,  he  pronounced  those  twenty-one  homilies 
concerning    The    StaUies.     While    the    Bishop    was 


**THE  STATUE Sr  21  t 


seeking  to  turn  aside  the  imperial  wrath,  Chrysostom 
wrought  day  by  day  upon  the  crowds  in  the  church. 
The  following  passage  is  a  very  fine  illustration  of 
the  natural  and  easy  yet  forcible  way  in  which  the 
orator  turns  the  circumstance  to  account,  and,  with 
great  art,  preaches  to  the  Emperor  for  mercy,  while, 
in  reality,  he  reproves  the  sins  and  passions  of  the 
people.     Thus  he  exclaims  in  a  passage  on 

THE    BOUNDLESS    LOVING-KINDNESS    OF   GOD. 

"  A  man  has  been  insulted,  and  we  are  all  in  fear  and 
trembling— both  those  of  us  who  have  been  guilty  of  this 
insult,  and  those  of   us  who  are  conscious  of   innocence. 
But  God  is  insulted  every  day.     Why  do  I  say  every  day  ? 
Rather  should  I  say  every  hour,  by  rich  and  by  poor,  by 
those  who  are  at  ease  and  those  who   are  in   trouble,  by 
those  who  calumniate  and  those  who  are  calumniated ;  and 
yet  there  is  never  a  word  of  this  ;  therefore  God  has  per- 
mitted our  fellow-servant  to  be  insulted,  that  thou  mayest 
know  the  loving-kindness  of  the  Lord.     This  offence  has 
been  committed   only   for  the  first  time,   yet  we  do  not, 
on  that  account,  expect  to  reap  the  advantage  of  excuse 
or    apology.      We    provoke   God    every   day,    and    make 
no  movement   of  returning  to    Him  ;    and   yet    He   bears 
with   all   long-suffering  ;  see  you   how  great  is  the  loving- 
kindness    of    the    Lord.      In    this    present    outrage,    the 
culprits    have    been    apprehended,    thrown     into    prison, 
and  punished ;  and  yet  we  are  in  fear.     He  who  has  been 
insulted  has  not  heard  of  what  has  been  done,  nor  pro- 
nounced sentence  ;  and  we  are   all   trembling.     But  God 
hears  day  by  day  the  insults  offered  to  Him,  and  no  one 
turns  to  Him,  although  God  is  so  kind  and  loving.     With 
Him  it  is  enough  to  acknowledge  the  sin,  and  the  guilt  is 
absolved  ;  ...  do  you  not  hence  conclude  how  un speak- 


212  CHRYSOSTOM. 


able  is  the  love  of  God,  how  boundless,  how  it  surpasses  all 
description  !  Here  he  who  has  been  insulted  is  of  the 
same  nature  with  ourselves  ;  only  once,  in  all  his  life,  has 
he  been  so  treated,  and  that  not  to  his  face,  not  while  he 
was  present,  and  seeing,  and  hearing,  and  yet  none  of  the 
offenders  have  been  pardoned.  But  in  the  case  of  God,  not 
one  of  these  things  can  be  said.  For  so  vast  is  the  distance 
between  man  and  God,  that  no  words  can  express  it,  and 
every  day  is  He  insulted  while  He  is  present,  looking  on, 
and  hearing ;  and  yet  He  neither  hurls  thunderbolts,  nor 
bids  the  sea  overflow  the  earth  and  drown  all  its  inhabitants, 
nor  commands  the  earth  to  yawn  and  swallow  up  all  who 
have  insulted  Him  ;  but  He  forbears,  and  is  long-suffering, 
and  offers  pardon  to  those  by  whom  He  has  been  outraged, 
if  they  only  repent  and  promise  to  do  so  no  more.  Oh, 
surely  it  is  time  to  exclaim,  Who  can  utter  the  mighty  acts 
of  the  Lord  ?     Who  can  show  forth  His  praise  ?  " 

As  to  the  friendly  Bishop,  it  is  pleasing  to  know 
that  he  was  well  and  kindly  entertained  by  the 
Emperor.  He  held  a  long  intercourse  with  him, 
during  which  the  old  man  reminded  him  of  the 
example  of  his  ancestor,  Constantine,  who,  when  his 
statue  had  been  miserably  abused,  and  its  face 
battered  and  broken,  passed  his  hands  over  his  face, 
saying,  "  I  do  not  feel  myself  bruised  and  broken, 
and  my  head  and  face  seem  sound  and  whole " ; 
and  then  he  used  the  better  authority  of  Him  who 
said,  "If  ye  forgive  men  their  trespasses,"  etc.,  etc.  ; 
and  the  Emperor  courteously  entreated  him,  and 
then,  with  pardons  in  his  possession,  hastened  his 
return  back.  The  good  old  Bishop,  unable  to  travel 
very  fast,  forwarded  the  good  news  before  him  ; 
and  we  learn  how,  when  he  entered  the  city,  it  was 


BISHOP   OF  CONSTANTINOPLE.  213 

all  ablaze  with  rejoicing  lights,  the  forum  decorated 
with  garlands  and  flowers,  and  green  boughs  over 
all  the  shops  and  doors — quite  a  festive  solemnity. 
And  then  the  dear  old  Bishop  went  to  the  church 
to  give  thanks;  and  Chrysostom,  in  the  place  where, 
during  the  Bishop's  absence,  he  had  poured  forth 
his  jeremiads,  now,  for  the  prosperous  success  of 
the  undertaking,  pronounced  an  oration  full  of 
gratulation   and  joy. 

No  doubt  the  behaviour  of  Chrysostom  on  this 
occasion,  joined  to  his  favourable  eminence  in 
opinion  before,  made  him  to  be  a  man  who  could 
not  be  hidden.  In  the  year  398  he  was  consecrated 
and  enthroned  Bishop  of  Constantinople.  Ministers 
at  the  present  day,  who  leave  one  charge  or  diocese 
for  another,  are  in  no  danger  of  creating  such  a 
turmoil  as  that  caused  by  the  rumour  of  the  probable 
removal  of  Chrysostom  from  Antioch.  The  people 
could  not  tolerate  the  idea  of  the  departure 
from  their  midst  of  their  admired,  eloquent,  and 
beloved  preacher  ;  nor  did  it  appear  that  the  preacher 
himself  desired  to  remove  ;  and,  probably,  had  he 
known  what  circumstances  were  to  come  out  of  this 
consecration,  the  Emperor  himself  would  not  have 
been  so  determined  in  his  design.  Fearing,  however, 
a  popular  tumult,  a  letter  was  written  to  the  governor 
of  the  province  to  manage  the  matter.  He  desired 
Chrysostom  to  walk  a  little  way  with  him  out  of 
the  town,  decoyed  him  into  his  carriage,  and  drove 
him  to  the  next  stage  beyond  Antioch  ;  there  he 
was  delivered  into  the  custody  of  the  officers  of  the 
Government  sent  by  the  Emperor  to  receive  him. 
The    Emperor    had    desired   that    his    Consecration 


214  CHRYSOSTOM. 

should  take  place  with  circumstances  of  especial 
pomp  and  solemnity,  and  a  convention  of  bishops 
was  summoned  to  assist  at  it ;  and  thus,  by  guile 
and  craft,  seldom  needed  in  the  history  of  the 
Church  for  elevation  to  such  dignity,  the  people 
of  Antioch  lost  their  pastor,  and  Chrysostom  be- 
came a  bishop. 

From  this  time,  he  enters  upon  that  course  of 
events  in  his  life  which  should  commend  him  most 
to  the  notice  of  preachers  and  teachers.  In  the 
great  metropolis  of  the  East,  he  became  a  great 
social  reformer.  His  discourses  are  richly  exemplary  ; 
vehemently  lashing  the  vices  of  the  city  and  the 
sins  of  the  clergy.  There  had  been,  indeed,  from 
the  corrupt  members  of  the  Church  of  Constantinople 
considerable  opposition  to  his  elevation.  Constanti- 
nople, then  the  chief  city  of  the  world,  the  seat  of 
the  empire  of  the  East,  the  seat  of  the  Court,  could 
not,  of  course,  be  supposed  to  be  exempt  from  those 
sins  especially  peculiar  to  great  cities.  The  preacher, 
among  those  of  his  own  profession  and  those  who 
lived  only  to  amuse,  found  and  satirized  "  such  as 
sold  their  voices  to  their  bellies," — a  very  admirable 
description,  by  the  bye,  of  many  a  preacher  and 
singer  of  succeeding  times.  Even  Dean  Milman  has 
apparently  judged  Chrysostom  somewhat  coldly,  be- 
cause he  carried  into  his  public  administration  more 
of  the  manners  of  the  ascetic  than  seemed  politic  in 
a  position  of  such  importance.  Gibbon,  of  course, 
cannot  be  expected  to  sympathize  with  the  man 
whose  loud  thumJers  against  the  scandals  of  the 
Church,  or  the  vices  of  the  city,  ere  long  brought 
him  into  immediate    hostility  with    the  indignation 


THE  SYNOD   OF  THE  OAIT.  215 

alike  of  the  chiefs  of  Church  and  State,  It  is  pro- 
bable that  such  a  temper  as  that  possessed  by  the 
vehement  orator  of  St.  Sophia  was  choleric  ;  and  in 
a  state  of  affairs  languishing  beneath  a  plethora  of 
ill-humours  he  attempted  too  rapid  a  reform.  The 
clergy  were  aroused,  and  sought  to  traduce  him  to 
the  people  ;  but  yet  the  stainless  grandeur  of  his 
own  life,  so  sombre  and  solemn,  gave  more  vivid 
brilliancy  to  his  amazing  orations.  He  soon  found 
himself,  however,  the  centre  of  an  immense  conspiracy, 
to  which  also  the  EmQ.eror  and  Empress  lent  them- 
selves. It  is  possible,  as  Milman  very  distinctly 
reasons,  that  he  permitted  himself  to  be  too  much 
influenced  by  the  representations  of  his  deacon, 
Serapion.  Finally,  however,  he  was  cited  to  the 
celebrated  Synod  of  the  Oak  ;  forty-six  charges  were 
preferred  against  him,  which  even  the  sceptical  and 
sarcastic  Gibbon,  who  never  misses  his  opportunity 
for  snubbing  and  sneering  at  a  saint,  says,  "  may 
justly  be  considered  as  a  fair  and  unexceptional 
panegyric."  Four  times  the  citation  was  served 
upon  the  Bishop  by  the  representatives  of  the 
Council ;  he  refused,  as  they  considered,  contuma- 
ciously, to  entrust  either  his  life  or  reputation  in 
their  hands.  While  the  envenomed  conclave  was 
sitting,  he  continued  preaching,  surrounded  himself 
by  the  bishops  of  his  party,  and  remained  intrepid 
and  unmoved.  As  we  read  of  these  things,  it  is 
possible  to  move  back,  in  imagination  and  thought, 
to  those  agitated  days.  We  are  able  to  read  calmly 
until  we  remember  that  life  and  existence  hung  upon 
the  decision  of  the  Council  ;  but  amidst  the  troubles 
of   his   companions,   some   of  whom   were  in  tears, 


2i6  CHRYSOSTOM. 


some,  unable  to  control  or  to  confine  their  passion, 
humbly  embracing  and  kissing  his  garments — 
"  Brethren,"  said  he,  "  sit  down,  and  do  not  weep  ; 
for  me  to  live  is  Christ,  and  to  die  is  gain  "  ;  and 
then  followed  those  magnificent,  immortal  words,  we 
presume  not  unknown  to  many  of  our  readers ;  words 
falling  from  his  lips  while  the  sentence  of  banishment 
was  being  pronounced  : — 

*  What  can  I  fear  ?  Will  it  be  death  ?  But  you  know 
hat  Christ  is  my  life,  and  that  I  shall  gain  by  death.  Will 
it  be  exile  ?  But  the  earth  and  all  its  fulness  is  the  Lord's. 
Will  it  be  the  loss  of  wealth?  But  we  brought  nothing 
into  the  world,  and  can  carry  nothing  out.  Thus  all  the 
terrors  of  the  world  are  contemptible  in  my  eyes;  and  I 
smile  at  all  its  good  things.  Poverty  I  do  not  fear.  Riches 
I  do  not  sigh  for.  Death  I  do  not  shrink  from ;  and  Life 
I  do  not  desire,  save  only  for  the  progress  of  your  souls. 
But  you  know,  my  friends,  the  true  cause  of  my  fall.  It 
is  that  I  have  not  lined  my  house  with  rich  tapestry. 
It  is  that  I  have  not  clothed  me  in  robes  of  silk  It  is 
that  I  have  not  flattered  the  effeminacy  and  sensuality  of 
certain  men,  nor  laid  gold  and  silver  at  their  feet.  But  why 
need  I  say  more  ?  Jezebel  is  raising  her  persecution,  and 
Elias  must  fly ;  Herodias  is  taking  her  pleasure,  and  John 
must  be  bound  with  chains ;  the  Egyptian  wife  tells  her  lie, 
and  Joseph  must  be  thrust  into  prison.  And  so,  if  they 
banish  me,  I  shall  be  like  Elias ;  if  they  throw  me  in  the 
mire,  like  Jeremiah ;  if  they  plunge  me  into  the  sea,  like 
the  prophet  Jonah  ;  if  into  the  pit,  like  Daniel ;  if  they  stone 
me,  it  is  Stephen  that  I  shall  resemble;  John  the  fore- 
runner, if  they  cut  off  my  head  ;  Paul,  if  they  beat  me  with 
stripes  ;  Isaiah,  if  they  saw  me  asunder." 

The  Emperor  was  called  upon  to  ratify  the  decree 
of  deposition   pronounced  by  the  Council  ;  and   the 


INDIGNATION  OF  THE  PEOPLE.  217 

too  visible  and  manifest  reflections  on  the  Empress 
in  the  passage  we  have  just  cited  very  likely  made 
it  more  easy  to  him  to  yield  his  sanction  to  the 
sentence.  John  was  speedily  arrested,  in  quite 
another  fashion  than  that  in  which  he  was  hurried 
away  to  his  stormy  bishopric.  He  was  conveyed 
through  the  city  by  an  imperial  messenger,  and 
landed,  after  a  short  navigation,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Euxine.  The  people  of  the  city  were  astounded. 
During  the  Council  of  the  Oak,  they  had  been  com- 
paratively mute  and  passive.  His  arrest  roused  the 
city  to  such  a  height  of  indignation  as  has  not  often, 
in  such  an  instance,  been  crowned  with  a  like  success, 
even  where  its  object  has  been  devotion  and  enthu- 
siasm to  greatness  and  goodness  in  the  presence  of 
a  corrupt  court.  Very  likely,  not  a  little  was  added 
to  the  intensity  and  wonder  of  the  hour  by  the 
throb  of  an  earthquake,  which  shook  the  city  that 
very  night,  and,  while  it  created  some  ruin,  seemed 
to  be  portentous  of  more.  Even  the  Empress  fell  on 
her  knees  before  the  Emperor,  and  besought  him  to 
recall  the  saintly  but  audacious  orator.  She,  who 
had  certainly  been  involved  deeply  in  the  machina- 
tions against  him, — and  no  wonder,  when  it  is 
remembered  that  she  had  not  escaped  either  the 
satire  or  the  vehemence  of  this  Knox  of  the  early 
Church, — now  protested  herself  quite  innocent  of  all 
the  troubles  which  had  come  upon  him,  declaring 
how  she  honoured  him,  not  only  as  her  own  bishop, 
but  particularly  as  the  person  who  had  baptized  her 
children.  Round  the  palace  raged  and  roared  the 
immense  waves  of  popular  commotion  ;  it  was  mani- 
fest that  the  public  safety  could   only  be  purchased 


2i8  CHRYSOSTOM. 


by  the  return  of  the  minister,  and  messengers  were 
sent  to  hasten  his  return  ;  and  the  historian  of  "  The 
DecHne  and  Fall "  has,  even  without  a  sneer,  recited 
how  the  shores  of  Europe  and  Asia  were  illuminated, 
and  the  Bosphorus  crowded  with  boats,  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Propontis,  as  the  victorious  people 
accompanied,  with  flaming  torches,  their  archbishop 
from  the  port  to  the  cathedral.  He,  indeed,  with  an 
inflexibility  which,  of  course,  was  part  of  his 
character,  was  loath  to  yield  to  any  prayers  for  his 
return,  until  his  innocency  should  be  vindicated 
before  a  greater  synod  than  that  by  which  he  had 
been  condemned,  and  his  sentence  legally  reversed. 
But  the  people  were  impatient  of  delay,  and  the 
Empress  also  sent  to  compliment  him,  declaring  that 
his  return  to  the  city  was  more  to  her  than  the 
crown  she  wore,  and,  in  approved  Oriental  language, 
expressing  how  she  had  restored  the  head  to  the 
body,  the  pilot  to  the  ship,  the  pastor  to  the  flock. 
So  he  yielded,  and  was  met  on  his  way  by  multitudes 
of  the  people,  singing  hymns  to  God  for  his  return. 
Thus  they  bore  him  to  the  cathedral,  and  no  protest 
of  his  that  he  was  under  ecclesiastical  censure  and 
had  no  right  there,  was  of  any  avail  ;  they  would 
have  him  ascend  the  Bishop's  throne,  and  give  his 
blessing  and  an  extempore  sermon,  which  has  been 
lost,  though  some  who  heard  it  spoke  of  it  as  one 
of  the  most  considerable  of  his  life.  We  know  little 
more  of  it  than  that  he  spoke  till  the  people  would 
allow  him  to  speak  no  longer — borne  down  and 
overwhelmed  by  their  acclamations.  What  men  of 
might  were  the  bishops  of  those  distant  days ! 

But  auspicious  as  were  the  circumstances  of  the 


SILVER  STATUE  OF   EUDOXIA.  219 


orator's  return,  no  reader  can  be  much  surprised  to 
find  that  they  were  not  omens  either  of  long-continued 
peace,  or  of  a  happy  close  to  his  career.  He  soon 
vexed  the  Empress  again.  Her  irritation  against 
him  in  the  days  of  the  first  persecution  grew  out  of 
his  sharp  rebukes  of  court  fashions.  It  soon  seemed 
that  he  had  even  a  stronger  and  more  personal 
ground  for  rebuke  as  a  Christian  minister.  A  silver 
statue  of  the  Empress,  Eudoxia,  was  to  be  solemnly 
erected  ;  it  was  to  be  elevated  on  a  porphyry  pillar 
in  the  street,  and  not  far  from  the  spot  where  stood 
the  Church  of  St.  Sophia.  Its  elevation  and  in- 
auguration were  accompanied,  not  only  by  many 
shoutings,  dances,  and  extravagances,  but  by  certain 
loose  sports  and  pastimes,  very  suitable  to  the  ido- 
latries of  Manicha^anism  or  semi-paganism.  The 
provost  of  the  city  was  a  Manichsean,  and,  therefore, 
encouraged  this  kind  of  looseness.  Chrysostom's 
speech  rushed  out  instantly  in  an  unwise  blaze  of 
vehement  invective.  If  readers,  quietly  perusing 
these  pages  of  church  history,  think  that  a  milder 
course  of  expostulation  would  have  been  more  wise, 
let  it  be  conceded  that  Rome  and  the  world  were 
only  just  then  emerging  from  paganism — these  rites 
were  of  the  very  nature  of  paganism.  In  the  latter 
years  of  the  reign  of  paganism  in  the  empire, 
emperors  had  demanded  and  received  the  blasphemy 
of  an  apotheosis.  Assuredly,  however,  the  preacher 
could  have  had  little  affection  or  respect  for  the 
woman  herself.  In  one  of  his  sermons  at  this 
period,  he  drew  the  character  of  an  ill  woman, 
affirming  that  no  beast  in  the  world,  nor  lion,  nor 
dragon,    is    comparable  to  a  bad  woman  ;    and  he 


220  CHRYSOSTOM. 


enforced  and  illustrated  this  by  many  examples 
from  Scripture  :  then  also  he  turned  the  tables, 
and  discoursed  of  the  qualities,  nature,  and  actions 
of  good  women.  The  Empress  was  again  roused  to 
indignation.  Again,  from  this  circumstance,  active 
machinations  were  formed  against  him  ;  the  persecu- 
tion reached  a  considerable  height  ;  the  clergy  who 
sided  with  him  were  seized,  beaten,  wounded,  and 
imprisoned  ;  the  waters  of  the  baptistery,  where  he 
officiated,  were  stained  with  blood.  Looked  at  from 
this  point  of  view,  we  see  that  it  was  the  strong  and 
malignant  action  of  paganism  against  a  pure  Chris- 
tianity. 

At  last,  power  used  its  utmost  insolence.  It  was 
determined  by  the  Court,  and  that  part  of  the 
Church  which  sided  with  it,  that  he  should  again  be 
deposed  and  banished.  The  city  was  in  a  strange 
agitation,  when  suddenly  a  fire  broke  out  in  his 
magnificent  cathedral.  The  conflagration  spread, 
and  left  no  part  of  the  stately  fabric  untouched  ;  the 
triumphant  flames  rolled  along  the  aisles,  and  some 
choice  pieces  of  antiquity  are  now  probably  lost  to 
us,  as  they  perished  in  that  great  calamity,  in  which, 
however,  neither  man  nor  beast  was  injured.  The 
most  monstrous  circumstance  of  all  was  that 
Chrysostom  was  himself  charged  with  setting  fire  to 
the  church  ;  his  case  was  indeed  hopeless  ;  he  had 
left  it  ;  he  had  bidden  farewell  to  his  deaconesses  ; 
he  had,  in  fact,  withdrawn  from  the  friendly  custody 
of  his  adherents,  and  was  on  his  way,  while  his 
church  was  in  flames,  to  the  Asiatic  shore.  The 
charge,  of  course,  was  only  one  of  the  monstrous 
malignities  of  the  time,  vexing  the  heart  and  increas- 


HIS  LIFE  IN  EXILE.  221 

ing  the  agony  of  the  persecuted  man.  After  his 
surrender  and  departure  in  that  ill  night,  he  never 
saw  Constantinople  again.  Henceforth  he  was  a 
prisoner,  wandering  amidst  places,  if  it  were  possible 
to  find  them,  where  his  friends  would  not  flock 
round  him,  to  love  and  reverence.  But  his  influence 
continued  during  his  absence.  From  his  solitary 
cell  among  the  mountains  of  the  Caucasus,  although 
another  bishop  had  been  enthroned  in  his  place,  he 
governed  his  church, — almost  the  whole  of  the 
Eastern  Church.  As  he  entered  towns  and  neigh- 
bourhoods— as  when  he  came  upon  the  frontiers  of 
Cappadocia  and  Tauro-Cilesia — bishops,  monks,  and 
holy  women  met  him  in  great  companies,  thronging 
round  him  with  tears,  and  saying  that  it  were  better 
the  sun  should  not  shine  in  the  heavens,  than  John 
should  be  silenced.  He  carried  with  him  a  wasted 
and  painful  frame,  subject  to  many  and  grievous  sick- 
nesses ;  he  wandered,  shifting  from  place  to  place, 
regarding  woods  and  rocks  as  his  best  security  ;  and 
Tavernier,  the  traveller,  tells  of  a  town  in  Armenia 
two  miles  from  which,  in  the  midst  of  a  plain,  rises  a 
rugged  rock,  in  the  which  was  a  hewn  chamber,  and 
bed,  table,  and  cupboard,  and,  after  some  several  steps 
cut  in  the  rock,  a  little  gallery  leading  to  another 
chamber ;  and  the  tradition  of  the  Christians  of  that 
place  in  the  time  of  Tavernier  was  that  here  the 
eloquent  and  saintly  exile  passed  a  hard  winter. 
The  Bishop  of  Rome,  Innocent,  wrote  to  him,  assur- 
ing him  of  his  affection,  seeking  thus  to  sustain  him 
in  his  exile.  This  was  towards  the  close  of  his 
course.  It  was  necessary  to  destroy  his  influence, 
as  well  as  to  compel  his  exile.      The   soldiers  were 


222  CHRYSOSTOM. 

cruel  to  him,  by  the  imperial  edict  compelling  him 
to  travel,  when  his  wasted  frame  could  bear  no  toil, 
through  violent  rains  and  burning  suns. 

At  last  they  came  to  Comana,  a  town  in  Cappa- 
docia  ;  he  was  not  permitted  to  lodge  in  the  town, 
but  hurried  forward  till  they  reached  the  oratory  of 
St.  Basil,  five  or  six  miles  off.  St.  Basil  had  been 
Bishop  ofComana,  and  died  a  martyr  under  Maximian. 
The  legend  says  that,  the  night  before,  the  martyr 
had  appeared  to  Brother  John,  and  said,  "  Be  of 
good  cheer,  brother  ;  to-morrow  we  shall  be  to- 
gether !  "  Moreover,  the  legend  continues,  the 
martyr  had  appeared  to  the  bishop  of  the  place 
bidding  him  "  provide  for  Brother  John  on  the 
morrow."  When,  therefore,  Chrysostom  reached  the 
oratory,  he  requested  of  his  guard  that  he  might 
stay  there,  but  they  hurried  him  forward.  They  had 
not,  however,  gone  more  than  three  or  four  miles, 
when  he  became  so  ill  that  they  were  obliged  to 
return.  As  soon  as  he  entered,  he  called  for  the 
brethren  to  give  him  some  clean,  white  raiment. 
He  stripped  himself,  and  having  put  on  the  clothing 
they  brought  him,  he  received  the  Sacrament  from 
their  hands,  and  then,  having  performed  these  last 
duties  for  himself,  especially  the  former,  indicative,  we 
have  often  thought,  of  the  saintly  delicacy  of  his 
nature,  he  concluded  with  his  favourite  doxology, 
"  Glory  be  to  God  for  all  things  that  happen ! " 
sealed  it  with  "  Amen  ! "  gently  stretched  himself 
out,  and  died. 

The  secrecy  with  which  he  had  been  carried  from 
place  to  place,  and  the  lonely  desert  spot  where  he 
breathed  his  last,  were  unable  to  prevent  an  amazing 


HIS  TRIUMPHANT  RETURN.  221 

throng  of  holy  people  from  following  him  to  his 
grave.  He  was  buried  in  the  same  tomb  with  the 
martyr  Basil,  who  had  met  him  and  told  him  to  "  be 
of  good  comfort."  His  long  life  was  packed  up 
into  the  small  compass  of  fifty-two  years.  His 
remains  were  not  allowed  to  rest  in  the  obscure 
spot  in  which  they  were  interred.  When  the 
Emperor  Arcadius  and  his  wife  Eudoxia  had  passed 
away,  and  Theodosius  the  younger,  who  had  been 
baptized  by  the  banished  Bishop,  reigned,  he  was 
besought  to  permit  the  restoration  of  the  venerable 
remains  ;  the  request  was  instantly  granted.  Once 
more  the  Bosphorus  was  alive  and  aglow  on  account 
of  Chrysostom,  but  this  time  with  a  more  melan- 
choly pomp.  As  the  body  touched  the  shore,  the 
young  Emperor  and  Empress,  accompanied  by  their 
sisters,  approached  the  coffin ;  which  the  former  kissed 
and  then  covered  with  his  imperial  cloak,  and  im- 
plored forgiveness  from  Heaven  for  the  wrongs  his 
parents  had  inflicted  on  the  holy  ascetic  ;  then  the 
remains  were  carried  to  their  final  resting-place. 
Envy  and   malice  had   done  their  worst. 

The  memory  of  the  holy  preacher  has  never 
needed  a  defender  ;  the  virulence  and  the  vice  of 
party  and  power  cast  him  down  in  his  own  day,  but 
even  then,  and  ever  after,  his  righteousness  has 
shone  forth  as  the  light.  It  has  been  said,  the 
works  of  Chrysostom  are  the  study  of  a  lifetime  ; 
they  are  voluminous  ;  the  tender  bursts  of  his  im- 
mortal eloquence,  if,  occasionally,  they  seem  to 
verge  towards  inflation,  are,  nevertheless,  fine  models 
of  the  way  in  which  Christian  rhetoric  may 
reach    its   most  passionate   harangue    and  declama- 


224  CUR  YS  OS  TOM. 


tion  ;  while,  better  still,  his  more  calm  and  sober 
moods  furnish  wiser  models  of  exposition  than  even 
the  wonderful  and  manifold  pages  of  Augustine. 
Nothing  can  be  finer,  more  rich  in  Gospel  sweetness, 
and  more  elevated  in  pathos,  than  the  following 
passage  on 

THE   SALVATION    OF  THE  THIEF 

"  Would  you  learn  another  most  illustrious  achievement 
of  the  Cross,  transcending  all  human  thought  ?  The  closed 
gate  of  Paradise  He  has  opened  to-day  ;  for  to-day  He  has 
brought  into  it  the  thief.  Two  most  sublime  achievements 
these  !  He  both  opened  Paradise,  and  brought  in  the  thief. 
He  restored  to  him  the  primeval  fatherland  of  man  ;  He  led 
him  back  to  the  ancestral  city.  *  To-day  shalt  thou  be 
with  me,'  He  says,  '  in  Paradise.'  '  What  say  est  thou  ? 
Thou  art  crucified  and  fixed  to  the  Cross  with  nails,'and 
dost  thou  promise  Paradise  ?  How  wilt  thou  confer  such  a 
gift?'  Paul,  indeed,  says,  '  He  was  crucified  in  weakness'; 
but  hear  what  follows.  '  Yet  He  liveth,'  he  says,  '  by  the 
power  of  God  ; '  and  again,  in  another  place,  *  My  strength 
is  made  perfect  in  weakness.  Wherefore,  now  on  the  Cross,' 
he  says,  *  I  promise  that  by  this  thou  mayest  know  My 
power.'  The  spectacle  itself  is  sad  :  look  not  at  what  the 
Cross  is  in  itself,  lest  thou  despair,  but  raise  thine  eye  to 
the  power  of  the  Crucified,  that  thy  countenance  may  gleam 
with  the  radiance  of  joy — for  this  end  He  shows  to  thee 
there  His  might. 

"  For  it  was  not  when  raising  the  dead,  it  was  not  when 
commanding  the  sea,  it  was  not  when  chiding  demons, — 
but  when  crucified,  nailed  to  the  tree,  insulted,  spit  upon, 
railed  at,  mocked,  tortured  by  all, — that  He  exerted  His 
might  in  drawing  to  Himself  the  sinful  soul  of  the  thief. 
See.  on  this  side  and  that,  the  effulgence  of  His  power.  He 
shook  creation,  rent  the  rocks  ;  and  the  heart  of  the  thief— 


CHRIST  AND   THE  THIEF.  225 

harder  than  rock,  He  made  softer  than  wax.  '  To-day 
shall  thou  be  with  Me  in  Paradise.'  What  sayest  thou  ! 
The  cherubim  and  the  flaming  sword  guard  Paradise,  and 
dost  thou  promise  admission  there  to  the  thief  7  '  Yea,'  is 
His  reply,  '  for  I  am  the  Lord  of  the  cherubim,  and  I  have 
the  power  of  flame  and  hell,  and  life  and  death.'  And 
therefore  He  says,  '  To-day  shalt  thou  be  with  Me  in 
Paradise.'  The  moment  these  celestial  powers  behold  their 
Lord,  they  will  withdraw  and  give  place. 

"Though  no  king  would  permit  a  thief  ox  any  one  of  his 
servants  to  occupy  the  same  seat  with  him,  and  to  ride  thus 
into  the  city,  yet  our  gracious  Lord  did  it.  For  at  His 
entrance  into  His  holy  fatherland,  He  brings  in  along  with 
Him  the  thief;  not  dishonouring  Paradise  with  the  feet  of 
the  thief — far  be  it  from  Him — but  rather  in  this  way 
conferring  on  it  honour.  For  it  is  the  glory  of  Paradise 
to  have  such  a  Lord,  so  full  of  power  and  love,  as  to  be 
able  to  make  a  thief  worthy  of  the  joys  of  Paradise. 

"  For  when  He  called  publicans  and  harlots  into  the 
kingdom.  He  did  this  not  to  dishonour  the  kingdom,  but  to 
confer  on  it  the  highest  renown,  and  to  show  that  the  Lord 
of  the  kingdom  is  such  as  to  be  able  to  bestow  on  harlots 
and  publicans  an  excellence  so  perfect,  that  they  are  seen 
to  be  worthy  of  the  honours  and  gifts  that  are  there. 

"  As,  therefore,  we  admire  a  physician  when  we  see  those 
who  are  labouring  under  incurable  diseases  released  from 
their  maladies,  and  restored  to  perfect  health,  so,  beloved, 
admire  Christ,  and  be  astonished  that,  laying  His  hand  on 
those  that  are  afilicted  with  incurable  maladies  of  the  soul, 
He  has  power  to  deliver  them  from  the  evils  under  which 
they  groan,  and  make  those  who  have  reached  the  utmost 
extremity  of  wickedness  fit  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

The  eloquence  of  Chrysostom  is  of  that  rich  order 
both  of  expression  and  illustration,  that,  weighty  and 

15 


226  CHRYSOSTOM. 


magnificent  as  it    is,    it  becomes  apprehensible    by 
every  order  of  mind. 

How  stirring  it  must  have  been,  in  the  ancient 
Church,  in  such  an  epoch,  to  have  heard  him  break 
forth  in  the  following  exclamation,  in  which  he  con- 
trasts the  lamentations  of  the  heathen  over  their 
dead  with  the  lights,  and  hymns,  and  sacramental 
service,  with  which  the  early  Christians  celebrated 
the  obsequies  of  the  departed. 

THE   BURIAL   RITES    OF   THE    EARLY   CHRISTIANS. 

"  Tell  me  what  mean  the  bright  shining  torches  ?  Do  we 
not  accompany  the  dead  as  brave  warriors  ?  What  mean 
the  hymns  !  Do  we  not  praise  God,  and  render  thanks  to 
Him,  that  He  hath  now  crowned  the  departed  ?  that  He 
hath  freed  him  from  his  sufferings,  and  hath  taken  him  from 
misery  to  Himself?  Consider  what  ye  sing  at  that  moment ! 
'  Return  unto  thy  rest,  O  my  soul ;  for  the  Lord  hath  dealt 
bountifully  with  thee.'  Again  :  *  The  Lord  is  on  my  side ; 
I  will  not  fear';  and  again:  'Thou  art  my  hiding  place 
from  the  trouble  which  encompasseth  me'  (Psalm  cxvi.  7  ; 
cxviii.  6  ;  xxxii.  7).  Consider  what  these  Psalms  mean. 
But  ye  heed  them  not,  and  are  drunken  with  grief.  Or 
regard  the  mourning  of  others,  that  ye  may  find  therein 
consolation  for  your  own.  Ye  say,  *  Return  unto  thy  rest, 
O  my  soul ;  for  the  Lord  hath  dealt  bountifully  with  thee  ! ' 
and  yet  ye  weep  (Psalm  xvi.  7)." 

Sometimes,  with  a  startling,  beautiful  ingenuity, 
he  seized  upon  some  little  passing  incident,  and 
made  it  exquisitely  effective.  Thus  once,  while  he 
was  preaching,  they  began  to  light  the  lamps,  and 
he  exclaimed  : — 

"Let  me  beg  you  to  arouse  yourselves,  and  to  put  away 


''THE  FIRE   OF  THE  SCRIPTURES:'        227 

that  sluggishness  of  mind.  But  why  do  I  say  this?  At  the 
very  time  when  I  am  setting  forth  before  you  the  Scriptures, 
you  are  turning  your  eyes  away  from  me,  and  fixing  them 
upon  t/ie  lamps,  and  upon  the  tnan  who  is  lighting  the  lamps. 
Oh  !  of  what  a  sluggish  soul  is  this  the  mark,  to  leave  the 
preacher,  and  turn  to  him  !  /,  too,  am  kindling  the  fire  of 
the  Scriptures ;  and  upon  my  tongue  there  is  burning  a 
taper,  the  taper  of  sound  doctrine.  Greater  is  this  light 
and  better,  than  the  light  that  is  yonder.  For,  unlike  that 
man,  it  is  no  wick  steeped  in  oil  that  I  am  lighting  up.  I 
am  rather  inflaming  souls,  moistened  with  piety,  by  the 
desire  of  heavenly  discourse." 

In  this  age  of  gorgeous  household  architecture, 
when  the  saints  in  many  a  neighbourhood  are  con- 
tent to  dwell  in  their  ceiled  houses,  while  the  house 
of  the  Lord  lies  waste,  perhaps  some  may  read  the 
following  with  pleasure  : — 

THE   PALACE    OF   ABRAHAM. 

"  Paul,  when  exhorting  the  rich  not  to  be  high-minded, 
taught  them  the  way  to  guard  against  it.  Tliey  were  to 
examine  the  uncertain  and  treacherous  nature  of  riches. 
Wherefore  he  said  :  '  Nor  trust  in  uncertain  riches.'  He  is 
not  rich  who  possesseth  much,  but  he  who  distributeth 
much.  Abraham  was  rich,  but  loved  not  his  wealth  :  he 
regarded  not  the  house  of  this  man,  nor  the  substance  of 
that  man  ;  but,  going  forth,  he  looked  round  for  the  stranger 
and  the  needy,  that  he  might  succour  poverty  ;  that  he  might 
entertain  the  wayfarer.  He  covered  not  his  ceilings  with 
gold,  but  fixing  his  tent  near  the  oak,  he  was  contented 
with  the  shade  of  its  leaves.  Yet  so  bright  was  his  dwelling, 
that  angels  were  not  ashamed  to  tarry  with  him ;  for  they 
sought  not  splendour  of  abode,  but  purity  of  soul.  Let  us, 
my  beloved,  imitate  Abraham,  and  dispense  our  goods  to 


228  CHRYSOSTOM. 


those  who  are  in  need.  Rudely  prepared  was  his  habitation, 
but  more  splendid  than  the  halls  of  kings.  No  king  ever 
entertained  angels ;  but  Abraham  sitting  under  the  oak, 
and  having  his  tent  pitched,  was  accounted  worthy  of  that 
honour.  Neither  was  he  thus  distinguished  on  account  of 
the  lowliness  of  his  dwelling;  but  he  enjoyed  this  gift, 
because  of  the  purity  of  his  soul  and  the  treasures  therein 
deposited.  Let  us  not  then  adorn  our  houses,  but  rather 
our  souls.  Is  it  not  a  disgrace  thoughtlessly  to  adorn  our 
walls  with  marble,  but  to  neglect  the  necessities  of  our 
Christian  brethren  ?  Of  what  use  to  thee,  O  man !  is  thy 
palace?  Canst  thou  take  it  up  and  depart  with  it?  But 
thy  soul  thou  canst  take  up  entire,  and  carry  along  with 
thee.  Lo !  now  that  so  great  peril  hath  come  upon  us,  let 
our  palaces  aid  us ;  let  them  deliver  us  from  the  impending 
danger,  but  they  cannot.  And  ye  are  my  witnesses,  who, 
leaving  your  palaces  desolate  and  flying  to  the  wilderness, 
shun  them  as  snares  and  nets.  Let  riches  now  assist  us ; 
but  the  present  is  no  season  for  them.  If  the  influence  of 
riches  be  insufficient  to  appease  the  anger  of  man,  much 
less  will  be  their  power  before  the  Divine  and  implacable 
seat  of  judgment.  If  gold  now  availeth  us  nothing  against 
an  irritated  and  wrathful  man,  its  power  will  entirely  vanish 
before  the  displeasure  of  God,  who  needeth  not  gold.  Let 
us  build  houses  to  dwell  in,  not  to  make  of  them  a  vain 
display.  That  which  exceedeth  our  necessities  is  super- 
fluous and  useless.  Bind  on  a  sandal  larger  than  thy  foot, 
and  thou  wilt  not  be  able  to  endure  it.  It  will  impede  thy 
walking.  Thus  also  a  house  greater  than  is  necessary 
impedeth  thy  passage  to  heaven.  Wouldst  thou  raise  vast 
and  splendid  habitations  ?  I  forbid  them  not ;  but  let  them 
not  be  on  earth.  Build  tabernacles  in  heaven, — tabernacles 
imperishable.  Why  ravest  thou  about  transitory  things, 
things  which  remain  on  earth?  Nothing  is  more  deceitful 
than  wealth ;  to-day  with  thee,  to-morrow  against  thee.  It 
armeth  on  all  sides  the  eyes  of  the  envious.     It  is  a  hostile 


HE  RETURNS  TO   CONSTANTINOPLE.      229 

warrior  in  thine  own  tent,  an  enemy  in  thine  own  house  ; 
and  ye,  who  possess  it,  are  my  witnesses,  who  in  every  mode 
are  burying  and  concealing  it." 

The  words  and  sermons  of  Chrysostom,  like  those 
of  our  own  Reeves  or  Brookes,  are  among  the  little 
historiettes  which  bring  vividly  before  us  the  manners, 
and  vices,  and  people  of  the  cities  in  which  he 
preached.  One  of  his  biographers  says  that  "  the 
Emperor,  the  commissioners,  bishops,  and  prefects, 
are  by  his  genius  preserved  like  pieces  of  sea-weed 
in  amber."  And,  running  our  eye  down  several 
passages,  we  could  easily  fill  pages  with  illustrations 
of  this  ;  but  our  sketch  of  this  illustrious  Father  has 
already  extended  to  too  great  a  length,  and  we 
must  close  our  quotations  with  a  noble  passage 
poured  forth  soon  after  his  brief  restoration  to 
Constantinople  : — 

HIS   RETURN   FROM   EXILE. 

"  Blessed  be  the  Lord  !  I  said  it  when  I  departed.  On 
my  return,  I  repeat  it ;  and  I  ceased  not  from  saying  it  in 
my  absence.  You  remember  that  on  the  last  day  I  recalled 
to  you  the  image  of  Job,  and  his  words,  '  Blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord  for  ever.'  It  is  the  pledge  that  I  left 
with  you  as  I  was  departing ;  it  is  the  thanksgiving  that  I 
bring  back  to  you.  The  situations  are  different  The 
hymn  of  gratitude  is  the  same.  In  exile  I  was  always 
blessing.  Returned  from  exile,  I  am  blessing  still.  Winter 
and  summer  work  to  the  same  end,  the  fertility  of  the  earth. 
Blessed  be  God,  who  allowed  me  to  go  forth ;  blessed  again 
and  again,  in  that  He  has  called  me  back  to  you.  Blessed 
be  God,  who  unchains  the  tempest ;  blessed  be  God,  who 
stills  it,  and  has  made  a  calm.  .  .  .  Through  all  the  diversity 


230  CHRYSOSTOM. 


of  time  the  temper  of  the  soul  is  the  same ;  and  the  pilot's 
courage  has  been  neither  relaxed  by  the  calm,  nor  over- 
whelmed by  the  tempest.  .  .  .  See  what  the  snares  of  my 
enemies  have  done;  they  have  increased  affection,  and  kindled 
regret  for  me,  and  have  won  me  six  hundred  admirers.  At 
other  times  it  is  our  own  body  alone  who  love  me.  To-day, 
the  very  Jews  do  me  honour ;  ...  it  is  not  the  enemies  that  I 
thank  for  their  change  of  mind,  but  God,  who  has  turned 
their  injustice  to  my  honour.  The  Jews  crucified  the  Lord, 
and  the  world  is  saved ;  yet  it  is  not  the  Jews  that  I  thank, 
but  the  Crucified.  May  they  see  that  which  our  God  sees  : 
the  peace,  the  glory  that  their  snares  have  been  worth  to 
me.  At  other  times,  the  church  alone  used  to  be  filled. 
Now  the  public  square  is  become  the  church.  All  heads 
are  as  immovable  as  if  they  were  one.  All  are  silent, 
though  no  one  orders  silence.  All  are  contrite,  too.  There 
are  games  in  the  circus  to-day,  but  no  one  assists  at  them. 
All  flow  to  the  temple  like  a  torrent.  The  torrent  is  your 
multitude.  The  river's  murmur  is  your  voices,  that  rise  up 
to  heaven,  and  tell  of  the  love  you  bear  to  your  Father. 
Your  prayers  are  to  me  a  brighter  crown  than  all  the 
diadems  of  earth." 

On  the  whole,  none  of  the  great  names  of  those 
early  ecclesiastical  ages  wins  from  us  more  admira- 
tion and  affection  than  that  of  this  illustrious  man. 
Great  as  he  was  as  an  orator,  he  shines  not  merely 
by  the  splendours  of  his  rhetoric  ;  indeed,  he  steadily 
resisted  the  growing,  and  too  prevalent  idea,  that 
the  Christian  teacher  should  be  a  mere  orator.  He 
reproved  the  growing  error  of  his  times,  a  passion 
for  pubhc  discourses,  and  the  disposition  of  auditors, 
as  he  says,  "  to  conduct  themselves  like  spectators 
at  the  heathen  games."  He  constantly  reproved 
the  disposition  to  applaud,  and  frequently,  when  it 


HIS  PERSONAL  APPEARANCE.  231 

broke  forth  in  homage  to  himself,  he  exclaimed, 
"  The  church  is  not  a  theatre  in  which  we  should 
listen  to  be  amused  ;  of  what  avail  to  me  are  those 
shouts — this  applause,  this  tumult?  The  praise  I 
seek  is  that  you  show  forth  in  your  works  the 
things  I  have  spoken  to  you."  Applause  in  the 
Church,  very  common  in  his  day,  he  strongly 
denounced,  as  transferring  to  that  hallowed  place 
the  laws  of  the  theatre.  He  set  a  very  high 
standard  for  the  Christian  minister :  "  Let  him," 
said  he,  "  not  approach  the  pulpit  who  can  neither 
combat  the  enemies  of  our  faith,  nor  bring  every 
thought  into  captivity  to  the  obedience  of  Christ, 
nor  cast  down  vain  imaginations."  When  he  spoke 
of  the  preachers  in  his  time  as  going  about  after 
the  fashion  of  harlots,  rather  "  to  seek  the  favour  of 
the  people,  than  to  instruct  them,"  it  is  not  surpris- 
ing that  rebuke  so  vehement  and  indignant  brought 
down  upon  his  head  the  condemnation  of  his  own 
holiness. 

Immense  as  was  his  power  while  living,  and 
greater  still,  and  more  extensive  as  his  fame  has 
been  since  his  death,  Chrysostom  does  not  flatter 
the  theory  of  those  who  demand  a  grand  and  im- 
posing figure  for  the  loftiest  oratory.  He  was  low 
of  stature  ;  his  head  was  big,  but  entirely  bald  ;  his 
forehead  large  and  full  of  wrinkles ;  still  more 
singular,  his  eyes  were  not.  prominent,  but  deep-set, 
sunk  inwards,  though  they  are  described  as  amiable 
and  affectionate  ;  nor  does  his  manner  seem  to  be 
that  of  which  we  speak  as  the  "  flood  of  eloquence  " 
— it  was  the  grandeur  of  expression,  the  holiness 
and   purity  of   conception,   united,   of  course,   to   a 


232  •  CHRYSOSTOM. 


voice  of  considerable  flexibility  and  strength  of 
tone ; — nor  does  he  seem  to  have  attempted  to 
inflame  the  people  by  much  action.  Distinctness 
we  gather  to  have  been  a  power  with  him  ;  and  in 
the  old  church,  either  of  Antioch  or  Constantinople, 
we  do  not  find  it  difficult  to  conceive  the  quiet 
power  of  his  manner,  expressing  the  delightful  and 
graceful  graciousness  of  many  a  paragraph  ;  or  the 
fore- finger  of  the  right  hand  elevated  till  it  clinched 
the  argument,  or,  as  was  more  common  with  Jiim, 
expressing  some  vehement  and  indignant  sentence 
by  pressing  it  on  the  palm  of  the  left  hand.  He 
had,  as.  is  abundantly  shown,  great  copiousness  and 
plenty  of  words  ;  infinite  sweetness,  and  an  impetus 
of  soul  and  nervous  efficacy,  which  gave  material 
strength  to  all  his  speech.  Thus,  in  every  point 
of  view,  he  compels  our  attention  ;  we  feel  that 
we  are  not  merely  with  a  man  great  in  his  own 
hour,  or  age,  or  city.  He  had,  in  a  very  eminent 
degree,  the  talents  of  facility  conjoined  to  perspicuity. 
We  could  trust  him  not  merely  when  a  multitude 
had  to  be  commanded,  but  when  a  text  had  to  be 
elucidated.  Meantime,  he  also  had,  in  a  very  emi- 
nent degree,  that  profound  intensity  of  character 
which,  we  are  persuaded,  is  the  root  of  all  truest 
oratory,  which  itself  is  the  organ  of  faith,  and  which, 
as  in  this  illustrious  instance,  makes  the  life  a  high 
and  noble  consistency.  Writers  have,  ere  now,  com- 
pared  Augustine  to  St.  John,  Chrysostom  to  St. 
Paul  ;  the  correctness  of  the  comparison  is  not,  at 
first  sight,  most  distinctly  recognised  ;  yet  the  more 
we  look  upon  the  men,  the  more  we  see  this  is 
their  order  ;  and   much  in  the  history  of  the  mind 


AS  A  PREACHER.  233 

and  life  of  Chrysostom  suggests  comparison  with 
him  whose  writings  he  most  deariy  loved  and  closely 
studied. 

Such  was  this  mighty  preacher  of  the  early 
Church,  pre-eminently  the  Preacher.  Augustine 
was  a  mighty  and  subtle  metaphysician,  a  wonderful 
expositor,  though  we  suppose  those  of  us  who  are 
even  his  greatest  admirers  would  scarcely  regard 
him  as  a  popular,  however  pleasing,  "  expositor." 
Jerome  was,  in  his  way,  a  great  interpreter  ;  and 
Athanasius  wielded  a  pen  of  iron  in  his  mighty 
controversies ;  he  was  able,  in  a  nobly  magnani- 
mous manner,  to  stand  against  the  whole  world — 
AtJianasius  contra  vinndinn.  But  Chrysostom  was 
the  preacher !  Those  who  desire  to  know  much 
about  him  will  have  to  look  through  various  and 
scattered  materials  ;  his  works  in  their  original  form 
are  not  easily  to  be  mastered,  excepting  by  devoted, 
and  more  special  students  than  most  of  us,  in  these 
busy  days,  have  time  or  opportunity  to  be.  They 
have  been  likened  to  a  vast  Herculanaeum,  whose 
specimens  of  all  that  is  rich  and  rare  in  Christian 
antiquity  lie  garnered  up  ready  to  reward  the  labour 
of  excavation  ;  but  their  dead  language,  ligatures, 
barbarous  contractions,  and  interminable  paragraphs 
— we  confess,  frightening  us  as  we  have  enviously  but 
vainly  looked  upon  the  bulky  editions  in  which  the 
words  of  the  Golden  Mouth  are  enshrined — remind 
us,  as  they  have  reminded  others,  of  an  antique 
city  covered  with  a  thick  lava  crust.  He  appears 
to  have  been  a  favourite  with  Jeremy  Taylor,  and 
when  Coleridge,  once  looking  over  Taylor's  pages, 
met  with  an   extract  from  the  ancient  preacher,   he 


234  CHRYSOSTOM. 


exclaimed,  "  What  a  vivid  figure !  It  is  enough  to 
make  any  man  set  to  work  to  read  Chrysostom  !  " 
We  hope  we  may  yet,  in  future  pages  of  this  work, 
find  ourselves  under  the  necessity  of  listening  again 
to  some  of  the  accents  from  the  Golden  Mouth. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

WIT,   HUMOUR,    AND   DROLLERY  IN  THE 
PULPIT. 

THE  title  of  this  chapter  must  seem  strange, 
even  discrepant,  in  the  story  of  pulpit  elo- 
quence, almost  like  the  spectacle  of  a  mountebank 
on  a  throne  ;  and  yet  instances  are  not  wanting  of 
wits  and  humorists  who  have  even  gathered  their 
thousands  in  the  temple.  Is  such  an  association 
tolerable  ? 

Among  the  contributions  of  Hiram,  king  of 
Tarshish,  to  Solomon,  the  great  builder  of  the 
temple  of  Jerusalem,  in  the  report  presented  in 
the  Second  Book  of  Chronicles,  there  stands  the 
very  curious   item  of  monkeys  and   peacocks. 

Monkeys  and  peacocks  have  been  very  plentiful 
in  the  service  and  the  building  of  the  temple  from 
the  time  of  Solomon,  and  in  all  ages  since,  especially 
the  apes  and  the  monkeys.  If,  in  a  previous  chapter, 
we  had,  in  the  false  finery  of  the  pulpit,  some  in- 
stances of  the  peacock,  in  this,  in  irreverent  drollery, 
we  might  introduce  some  illustrations  of  the  monkey 
and  ape.  It  might  seem  singular  how  that  quaint, 
•queer,  and  even  disgusting  beast  can  ever  minister 
to  the  service  of  the  masters  of  wisdom  ;  but  it  is 
certain    that    foolishness    has    sometimes    aided    the 


236      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

plans  and  the  purposes  of  highest  and  holiest  things. 
We  have  often  been  amazed  at  the  very  strange 
human  things  we  behold  sometimes  in  the  scheme 
of  providence,  and  how  all  unlikely  things  have  their 
place  and  are  used  up,  and  when  we  see,  and  are 
called  upon  to  account  for  this,  we  can  only  give 
the  same  answer  given  by  those  to  whom  the  ques- 
tion was  put,  "  Why  loose  ye  the  ass  ? "  when  they 
replied,  "  The  Master  hath  need  of  him."  It  is  a 
reply  we  have  often  been  compelled  to  give  when 
we  have  seen  creatures,  just  as  unlikely,  employed 
in  even  a  Divine  kind  of  work. 

Indeed,  we  think  it  must  be  admitted,  we  are  not 
so  squeamish  in  our  ears  as  in  our  appetites  ;  yet  is 
it  with  food  for  the  mind  as  with  food  for  the 
stomach, — all  food  which  seems  coarse  is  not  really 
coarse ;  good  oatmeal  is  a  fine,  honest,  nutritive 
diet,  while  the  tasty  kickshaws,  drenched  in  condi- 
ments and  sauces,  of  a  Paris  cook,  are  among  the 
most  gross  and  vicious,  the  most  really  coarse  and 
innutritive  abominations  which  can  vex  the  stomach. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Treacle  has  sometimes  offended  our 
gastric  tastes ;  but  we  could  never  listen  to  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Honeyman  for  five  minutes  without  being 
surfeited  and  sickened  ;  true,  we  have  no  wish  to 
make  a  meal  from  the  menu  of  either  the  one  or  the 
other. 

We  make  these  remarks  chiefly  with  reference  to 
that  queer  person,  the  droll,  in  the  pulpit.  Sancti- 
fied genius  may  be  thronged  by  multitudes,  but  the 
droll  is  always  sure  to  gather  a  crowd,  and  there* 
are  those  who  in  the  pulpit  dare  to  emulate  the 
nonsense  and  the  notoriety  of  the  cheap-jack,  or  the 


A    WIDE  SUBJECT.  237 

clown  of  the  booth  in  'the  village  fair.  We  need 
not  covet  their  fame! 

An  archbishop  and  a  dean  of  our  English  Church 
were  walking  familiarly  past  one  of  those  great 
temples  in  London  in  which  the  notoriety  of  the 
preacher,  for  his  oddities  of  speech  and  manner, 
drew  together  massive  congregations  (we  shall  only 
say  the  chapel  could  not  be  Mr.  Spurgeon's), 
when  the  amiable  Dean  said  to  his  friend,  "  There 
now,  Bishop,  we  have  nobody  in  our  Church  who 
can  gather  the  crowds  of  that  man.  I  wish  we  had 
some  one  who  could  reach  the  ears  of  thousands  of 
plain  folks  !  "  The  Archbishop  took  the  arm  of  his 
companion  and  gently  said,  "  Thou  shalt  not  covet 
thy  neighbour's  ass."  * 

But  wit,  humour,  and  drollery  in  the  pulpit !  the 
mere  idea  of  either  one  or  the  other  will  to  many, 
perhaps,  be  perfectly  intolerable  and  shocking.  And 
yet  perhaps  each  may  have  a  place,  and  we  know 
how  Wisdom  is  justified  of  her  children.  The 
subject  of  this  chapter  is  a  large  one ;  it  might 
fill  a  volume.  Perhaps  in  our  day  the  taste  of  the 
populace  has  improved.  Perhaps  the  things  alto- 
gether outrageous  to  good  sense  and  propriety 
would  not  be  dictated  now  by  the  mind  of  any 
speaker.  But  we  are  far  from  thinking  they  would 
not  be  tolerated  if  they  were  uttered,  and  we  think 
we  perceive  a  disposition  to  return  to  those  times 
when  the  unction  of  a  discourse  was  in  its  gross 
coarseness,  and  its  pith  and  power  were  in  its  offen- 
siveness.  Perhaps  it  is  impossible  to  wield  an 
influence   over   immense    masses   of  people  without 

•  See  an  old  number  of  the  Saturday  Review, 


238      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

something  of  this,  and,  certainly,  it  is  true  that  it 
has  often  been  the  case  that  those  sacred  orators 
who  have  moved  multitudes  have  done  so,  if  not 
constantly  and  principally,  then  frequently  by  offences 
against  the  canons  of  good  taste. 

The  history  of  the  pulpit  furnishes  some  strange 
instances.  Against  the  occasional  legitimate  use  of 
humour  we  can  have  little  to  say  ;  those  who  can 
use  them  with  skill  may  find  those  weapons  of 
speech  as  available  as,  perhaps  more  available  than, 
any  ;  for  they  are  certainly  weapons  which  lie  on 
the  side  of  the  more  simply  human.  Perhaps,  as  in 
the  case  of  satire,  we  gain  power  over  men  as  we 
remove  from  the  regions  of  the  abstract.  Even 
imagination  is  most  powerful  in  the  pulpit,  not 
when  it  ascends  into  the  heights  and  heavens  of 
unrealized  poetry,  but  when  it  descends  rather  into 
the  household  and  the  shop  ;  and  this  is  its  most 
legitimate  realm. 

No  one  can  doubt  that  humour  may  be  purified, 
and  its  judicious  use  reined  and  guided,  by  piety, 
tenderness,  and  taste,  and  may  do  more  to  bring 
truth  near  to  the  hearts  of  the  multitudes  than  any 
other  element  of  speech.  And  it  is  singular  that,  so 
rich  as  our  language  is  in  humour,  in  the  pulpit  it 
has  so  seldom  been  employed  ;  nay,  it  has  become 
so  rare  that  it  has  also  become  distasteful,  and  he 
who  uses  it  has  to  calculate  on  a  fair  share  of 
unpopularity  with  his  brethren  in  the  ministry,  and 
with  others  too,  for  his  condescension  to  the  popular 
infirmity  of  a  smile,  even  if  we  stop  short  by  many 
degrees  of  the  more  flagrant  heresy  of  a  laugh. 

Laughter  has  been  a  great  preacher ;  and  wonder- 


ROWLAND  HILL.  239 

ful  has  been  its  power ;  it  has  been  one  of  the 
Divine  moral  forces  employed  to  shatter  bad  things  , 
in  how  many  ages  it  has  appeared  to  serve  the 
cause  of  truth!  We  will  not  think  of  Moliere  or 
Cervantes,  but  think  of  Ulrich  von  Hutten  and  the 
EpistolcB  Obscuroruni  Virorwn,  that  mighty  catapult 
against  Rome  which  aided  the  work  of  Luther  ; 
think  of  Pascal's  Provincial  Letters,  which  made 
Jesuitism  to  reel  and  tremble.  Do  not  the  Bigelovv 
letters  illustrate  how,  when  some  great  work  is  to 
be  done  for  man,  the  wit  is  generally  found  to  step 
forward  and  to  arouse  a  laugh,  as  fatal  as  a  seraph's 
sword  ;  and  is  it  to  be  supposed  that  a  power  like 
this  has  no  place  in  the  pulpit  against  evil  things, 
either  in  the  errors  of  the  mind,  or  the  vices  of  life  ? 
We  have  spoken  of  zvit,  Junno2ir,  and  drolloy ; 
their  methods  are  different,  it  is  true  ;  wit  is  intel- 
lectual, humour  is  emotional,  drollery  is  sensational. 
Wit  raises  the  laugh  at  you,  humour  laughs  with 
you,  drollery  mixes  the  two  boisterously.  Wit  is 
cultured,  humour  is  human,  drollery  is  coarse,  care- 
less, and  often  ignorant.  Wit  is  usually  serious, 
bold,  and  stately,  humour  unbends  in  bouJiouiic 
and  in  cheerfulness,  but  drollery  is  never  satisfied 
unless  you  roar.  Wit  sees,  humour  feels,  drollery 
takes  liberties  !  Rowland  Hill's  was  a  truly  conse- 
crated and  great  life,  but  he  really  had  much  of  the 
pulpit  droll.  Speaking  once  to  a  student  for  the 
ministry,  he  comically  said,  "  The  Gospel  is  a  good 
milch  cow ;  she  always  gives  plenty  of  milk  and  of 
the  best  quality.  I  never  write  my  sermons  ;  I 
always  trust  to  the  Gospel  ;  I  just  give  a  pull  at 
justification,  then  a  plug  at  adoption,  and  afterwards 


240      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

a  tilt  at  sanctification,  and  so  on,  one  way  or  another, 
till  I  have  filled  my  pail  with  Gospel  milk.  You 
do  the  same,  young  man  ! "  There  was  a  lecture 
on  homiletics  for  a  student ! 

The  stories  of  humour  and  drollery  belong  mostly 
to  the  age  of  the  primeval  preachers.  Wonderful 
accounts  we  read  of  them,  and  their  achievements 
on  the  great  continent  of  the  United  States  ;  in  the 
lives  of  bishops,  not  addressed  as  My  Lord  ;  wear- 
ing no  episcopal  title  or  dignity  ;  having  no  splendid 
palace,  no  magnificent  cathedral,  no  snug  diocese, 
no  princely  income,  only  a  mighty  instinct  for  souls  ; 
men  like  Bishop  Asbury,  separating  themselves  from 
all  the  comforts  and  conveniences  of  life  for  sixty 
dollars  a  year,  with  a  travelling  equipage,  not  of  a 
coach  and  four,  but  of  saddle  bags  and  one  horse, 
plunging  into  the  wilderness  to  seek  for  lost  sheep, 
bent  on  saving  souls  ;  preaching  in  barns,  on  stumps 
of  trees,  in  log  huts,  in  illimitable  woods,  in  the 
houseless  forests,  by  blazed  trees  in  deep  prairies, 
floundering  through  swamps,  swimming  vast  rivers, 
drenched  by  pitiless  rains,  scorched  by  suns,  bitten 
by  frosts  and  driving  snows.  From  one  of  these 
places  they  wrote  for  a  good  preacher — "  Be  sure 
and  send  us  a  good  swimmer !  " — and  when  wonder 
was  expressed  what  this  could  mean,  it  turned  out 
that  the  district  was  full  of  bridgeless  torrents  and 
streams,  and  the  last  minister  was  drowned  because 
he  could  not  swim.  Sometimes  the  travelling 
preacher,  or  bishop,  found  himself  among  hostile 
Indians  in  the  solitude  of  the  forest  ;  he  knew  their 
track  and  trail  ;  at  night  he  heard  their  yell,  and 
found  himself  in  the  neighbourhood  of  their  camp- 


THE  BACKWOODS  PREACHERS.  241 

fire  and  the  crack  of  the  Indian  rifle.  Forgive 
them  their  drollery ;  they  loved  their  Master,  and 
they  loved  the  work.*  The  intrepid  and  heroic 
preacher  urged  his  way  over  mountains,  and  through 
valleys,  stirring  the  community,  wherever  he  came, 
with  hymn  and  sermon  ;  reaching  the  villages  and 
little  settlements  dotting  the  country,  amidst  exten- 
sive wildernesses,  for  the  most  part  the  undisturbed 
abode  of  the  wolf  and  the  panther.  Neither  the 
cold,  nor  storms  of  winter,  nor  the  abuse  he  received 
from  wicked  men,  could  weaken  his  energy  or 
impede  his  progress.  If  the  horse  were  not  in  the 
way,  then  often  the  saddle-bags  had  to  be  carried 
over  the  shoulder,  and  he  travelled  on  foot.  Some- 
times there  were  no  saddle-bags.  "  George,"  said 
Bishop  Asbury  to  George  Roberts,  "  George,  where 
are  your  clothes  }  "  "  Bishop,  they  are  on  my  back. 
On  receiving  my  appointment  at  your  hand,  sir,  I 
am  not  compelled  to  return  to  my  circuit  for  my 
clothes,  but  I  am  ready,  at  a  moment's  warning,  to 
go  whithersoever  you  direct."  His  son.  Dr.  Roberts, 
says :  "  I  have  in  my  possession  the  needle  and 
thread  case  which  were  his  constant  companions. 
If  his  clothes,  from  any  unexpected  cause,  needed 
attention,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  turning  aside  into 
some  retired  spot  for  the  purpose  of  taking  them 
off  and  mending  them."  In  the  lives  of  Romish 
saints,  such  as  St.  Francis  or  St.  Dominic,  these  would 
be  thought  most  picturesque  and  wonderful  relics. 
Sometimes  the  preacher,  in  the  depth  of  the 
prairie,  came  upon  a  band  of  white  heathen.     Thus 

*  See  an  interesting  article,  "  Methodist  Clerical  Biography," 
North  A)iiericaii  Review,  No.  191,  1862. 


242      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

Richard  Nolley,  one  of  these  good  and  great 
men,  discovered  the  track  of  an  emigrant  family, 
and  followed  it  '*  What,"  said  the  man  who  was 
leading  it  into  the  wilderness,  "a  Methodist  preacher! 
I  quit  Virginia  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  them,  but 
in  my  settlement  in  Georgia,  I  thought  I  should  be 
beyond  their  reach.  There  they  were,  and  they  got 
my  wife  and  daughter  into  their  church.  Then  I 
come  here  to  Chocktaw  corner,  find  a  good  piece  of 
land,  feel  sure  that  I  shall  have  some  peace  from 
the  preachers,  and  here  is  one  before  I've  unloaded 
my  waggon  !  "  "  My  friend,"  said  Nolley,  "  if  you 
go  to  heaven,  you'll  find  Methodist  preachers  there  ; 
and  if  you  go  to  hell,  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  some 
there ;  and  you  see  how  it  is  in  this  world.  I'd 
advise  you  to  come  to  terms  with  God,  and  then 
you'll  be  at  peace  with  us."  Sometimes  they  died 
in  the  wilderness,  and  "  no  man  knew  the  place  of 
their  sepulchre."  Months,  and  sometimes  years, 
elapsed  before  it  was  known  they  had  gone  to  their 
reward.  These  men  have  been  called  the  graduates 
of  Brush  College,  Fellows  of  Swamp  University. 
"  How  is  it  you  have  no  Doctors  of  Divinity  .^ "  said 
one  to  fine  old  Jacob  Kruber,  a  preacher  of  this 
order.  "  Our  divinity  is  not  sick,  and  does  not  need 
doctoring,"  said  the  old  man.  A  witty,  satirical  old 
creature  this  Kruber,  able,  learned,  sarcastic,  and 
eloquent.  He  lived  during  the  days  of  the  Revolu- 
tion in  America,  and  being  called  on  to  pray  on 
some  great  public  occasion,  he  delivered  himself  of 
the  following  petition  :  "  O  Lord,  have  mercy  on  the 
sovereigns  of  Europe  ;  convert  their  souls  ;  give 
them  short  lives  and   happy  deaths  ;  take  them  to 


JACOB  KRUBER.  243 

heaven,  and  let  us  have  no  more  of  them."  Some- 
times the  biter  got  bitten.  When  he  lived  at 
Lewiston  he  came  frequently  into  contact  with  a 
Romish  priest,  not  much  behind  him  in  the  use  of 
edged  tools.  He  met  the  priest  one  day,  not,  as 
usual,  on  horseback,  but  trudging  on  foot  :  said 
Kruber,  "  Where's  your  horse  .-'  why  don't  you  ride  .-*" 
"Oh,"  said  the  other,  rather  testily,  "  the  beast's  dead!" 
"  Dead  !  well,  I  suppose  he  is  in  purgatory  .■'  "  "  Nay, 
the  wretched  creature  turned  Methodist  just  before 
he  died,  and  went  straight  to  hell." 

Old  Kruber  was  greatly  averse  to  read  sermons — 
for  even  in  those  days  there  were  readers  of  sermons 
in  the  pulpit.  Once  a  youthful  Congregational 
minister  read  before  him  ;  Jacob  also  had  to  follow 
the  young  man  in  preaching,  and  it  was  expected  he 
would  give  the  young  brother  a  thrust  for  the  use  of 
his  notes.  He  finished,  however,  without  saying  a 
word  that  looked  towards  the  manuscript ;  but,  in  his 
concluding  prayer,  he  uttered  these  strange  petitions  : 
— "  Lord,  bless  the  man  who  has  read  to  us  to-day  ; 
let  his  heart  be  as  soft  as  his  head,  and  then  he  will 
do  us  some  good."  "  How  do  you  make  your 
preachers  .'* "  was  once  said  to  one  of  these  fine  old 
preachers  of  the  woods.  "  Why,  we  old  ones  tell 
the  young  ones  all  we  know,  and  they  try  to  tell  the 
people  all  they  can,  and  they  keep  on  trying  till 
they  can  ;  that's  our  college."  One  was  asked,  "  Do 
you  belong  to  the  standing  order  ?  "  "  No,"  he  said, 
"  I  belong  to  the  kneeling  order."*  They  were 
sharp  men.      One  day,  while  Dr.  Bostwick  was  riding 

*  "The  Life   of  Jacob   Kruber."     By  W.    P.  Strickland. 
New  York,  1866. 


244      T^-^^  ^^^  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

along  on  the  well-known  Methodist  horse,  a  man 
rode  up,  insolently  laid  his  hand  on  the  Doctor's 
bridle,  and  said  :  "  I  would  as  soon  ride  the  devil  as 
ride  this  horse,"  "  Oh  ! "  said  Bostwick,  "how  it 
would  look  to  see  a  child  riding  his  own  father  !  " 
The  man  put  spurs  to  his  own  steed,  and,  without  a 
word,  galloped  away. 

There  was  Billy  Hibbard,  shrewd,  powerful  in  his 
dealings  with  the  souls  of  men,  but  a  mighty 
Arminian.  "  Brother  Hibbard,"  said  a  Calvinistic 
minister  to  him  one  day,  "  you  hurt  my  feelings  in 
preaching  yesterday."  "Why,  brother,  how  did  I 
do  that  ? "  He  referred  him  to  some  doctrinal 
remark  in  his  discourse.  "  Oh  !  "  said  Hibbard,  "  I'm 
sorry  you  took  that,  I  meant  tliat  for  the  devil,  and 
you  stepped  in  and  took  it  yourself ;  don't  get 
between  me  and  the  devil,  brother,  and  you  won't 
get  your  feelings  hurt."  Like  our  own*  famous 
Dawson,  he  would  scarcely  be  known  by  the  more 
elegant  and  euphonious  name  of  William  :  when 
Bishop  Asbury  was  presiding  at  the  roll-call  of  the 
Conference,  he  objected  to  answering  to  that  name, 
insisting  that  his  name  was  Billy.  "  Why,  Brother 
Hibbard,"  said  Asbury,  "  Billy  is  a  little  boy's 
name!"  "Yes,  Bishop,"  he  replied,  "  and  I  was  a 
little  boy  when  my  father  gave  it  me." 

These  men  had  few  books  save  the  Bible,  Pilgrivis 
Progress,  and  a  few  such,  in  their  saddle-bags, 
formed  their  whole  library  ;  yet  some  became  great 
scholars  and  masterly  divines.  The  open  pages  of 
the  book  of  Nature  were  before  them,  and  in  keen 
encounters  with  men  they  learned  a  thousand  things 
hidden  from  ordinary  eyes  ;  and  thus  was  trained  a 


ROUGH  AND  READY  ITINERANTS.        245 


healthful  body,  a  well-developed  muscular  system, 
large,  strong  lungs  ;  a  vigorous  constitution,  a  work- 
shop and  dwelling-place  for  a  vigorous  mind.  How 
a  man  could  become  a  strong  preacher  and  thinker 
while  ranging  tnose  mighty  solitudes,  sleeping  in 
small  apartments  containing  all  the  family,  and  such 
domestic  animals  as  shared  a  back-woodsman's  fire- 
side, seems  wonderful.  They  suffered  many  persecu- 
tions. They  had  not  much  to  say  of  moral  beauty, 
necessary  relations,  a  priori  and  a  posteriori  volitions, 
and  intellectual  processes,  and  active  powers  ;  but  it 
is  said,  and  we  believe  it,  they  talked  of  sin  so  as  to 
make  the  flesh  creep,  and  the  hair  stand  on  end  ; 
and  they  talked  of  the  love  of  the  Saviour,  and  the 
freedom  of  His  grace,  so  as  to  make  the  heart 
rejoice,  and  tears  come  to  the  eyes.  Their  intel- 
lectual heraldry  was  not  in  their  armour,  but  in  their 
muscle,  they  were  not  educated  to  a  suppression  of 
their  instincts,  nor  formalised  to  a  slavery  of  meta- 
physics. Certainly,  they  would  not  have  deserved 
the  censure  pronounced  upon  a  florid  metaphysical 
preacher — of  whom  his  people,  during  the  week, 
saw  nothing, — that  "  on  six  days  of  the  week  he  was 
invisible,  and  on  the  seventh  he  was  incomprehen- 
sible ;  "  and  they  might  have  reversed  the  remark  of 
the  bishop  to  the  young  man  who  applied  to  him 
for  ordination  :  "  I  do  not  forbid  you  to  preach,  but 
both  Nature  and  Grace  do."  Such  instances  seem 
to  give  a  sanctity  to  humour,  even  when  found  in 
the  preacher.  Indeed,  any  minister  may  be  sure 
that  his  successful  speech  will  depend  greatly  upon 
his  ability  to  use  this  ;  for  it  is  humour  which  is  the 
great  detective    in    character ;    it    distinguishes    the 


246      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 


shades  of  minds  ;  and  hearty  humour  also  has  a  keen 
eye  for  the  frailties  and  failings,  the  sins  and  in- 
firmities, the  lesser  or  the  larger  sorrows,  and  the 
lighter  or  the  weightier  joys  of  the  whole  human 
family.  We  have  often  said  that  a  man  may  as  well 
preach  without  humanity  as  without  humour,  but 
then  perhaps  most  men  do  preach  without  humanity  ; 
they  find  their  truth,  and  dissect  off  all  its  human 
relations,  and  hold  it  up,  a  mere  piece  of  curious 
theologic  osteology,  to  the  eye. 

In  the  pulpit  any  man  who  does  not  aim  to  lift 
his  audience  out  of  the  region  of  every-day  life, 
out  of  the  region  of  sorrow  and  of  sin,  out  of  the 
region  of  doubt  and  trembling  ;  the  preacher  who 
does  not  perpetually  aim  to  influence  the  mind 
from  higher  regions,  had  better,  for  his  own  sake, 
hold  his  peace  ;  if  that  guiding  thought — which  is 
only  what  the  essayists  and  reviewers  would  call 
the  ideological  way  of  speaking  of  the  glory  of 
God,  as  the  reviewers'  chief  end — if  that  commanded 
all  the  faculties  and  powers  of  the  preacher  it  would 
balance  all  his  efforts.  Truest  humour  is  tenderness  ; 
coarseness  is  always  synonymous  with  hardness  ;  a 
gross,  overflowing,  sensual  nature  may  say  a  multitude 
of  clever,  shrewd,  laughable  things,  but  not  for  a 
moment  merit  the  character  of  the  humorist  ;  they 
may  be  just  the  luxuriant  outgrowth  of  a  hot  tropical 
climate ;  that  wilderness  of  rank  luxuriance  does 
not  delight  us,  it  is  the  nestling  ground  of  very 
dangerous  things ;  the  very  beauty  needs  to  be 
educated  in  a  less  voluptuous  soil.  Such  produc- 
tions may  be  wonderful,  but  scarcely  beautiful. 
Such   is   the   coarseness   with   which    the  old  pulpit 


"  OLD   jimmy;'    of  TENNESSEE.  247 

abounded  ;  hardness  and  blasphemy  are  character- 
istics of  many  of  the  sermons  of  the  old  times.* 

Yet  this  is  not  so  objectionable  as  many  other 
styles  of  preaching  to  which  we  may  yet  have 
occasion  to  rdfer. 

Our  Billy  Dawson,  of  Leeds,  has  a  great  fame, 
and  somewhat  resembling  that  of  these  American 
worthies  ;  he  used  to  say,  "  I  am  treated  as  a  bishop 
sometimes,  and  sometimes  as  an  apostle ;  as  a 
bishop  I  have  a  large  congregation,  and   entertain- 

*  No  doubt,  in  very  rude  and  primitive  times,  and  over  very 
rough  and  ragged  congregations,  this  weapon  even  may  be 
used,  and  not  in  vain.  Mr.  Milburn  gives  us  an  account  of 
an  old  American  preacher  of  the  backwood  districts  in  the 
days  of  the  Saddle  Bag  : — 

"Take  the  following  as  a  specimen  of  their  predilections. 
It  was  a  discourse  delivered  by  the  Rev.  James  Axley, 
familiarly  known  as  'Old  Jimmy,'  a  renowned  and  redoubtable 
preacher  of  East  Tennessee.  It  was  related  by  Hugh  L. 
White,  for  many  years  a  distinguished  judge  in  that  State, 
and  aftenvards  a  conspicuous  member  of  the  Federal  Senate. 

"  It  was  noised  through  the  town  of  Jonesborough  that  Mr. 
Axley  would  hold  forth  on  the  morning  of  the  ensuing  Sabbath. 
The  famous  divine  was  a  great  favourite — with  none  more 
than  with  Judge  White.  At  the  appointed  hour  the  judge,  in 
company  with  a  large  congregation,  was  in  attendance  at  the 
house  of  prayer.  All  were  hushed  in  expectation.  Mr.  Axley 
entered,  but  with  him  a  clerical  brother,  who  was  '  put  up  '  to 
preach.  The  congregation  was  composed  of  a  border  popula- 
tion ;  they  were  disappointed  ;  this  was  not  the  man  they  had 
come  to  hear,  consequently  there  was  a  good  deal  of  mis- 
behaviour. The  discourse  was  ended,  and  Mr.  Axley  rose. 
It  is  a  custom  in  the  new  country  when  two  or  more  preachers 
are  present,  for  each  of  them  to  have  something  to  say.  The 
people  opine  that  it  is  a  great  waste  of  time  to  come  a  long- 
distance and  be  put  off  with  a  short  service.  I  have  gone  into 
church  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  have  not  come 
out  again  until  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Short  admi- 
nistrations are  the  growth  of  thicker  settlements. 

"  Mr.  Axley  stood  silently  surveying  the  congregation  until 
every  one  was  riveted.     He  then  began  : — 

"  '  It  may  be  a  very  painful  duty,  but  it  is  a  very  solemn 


248      TVir  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

ment  at  the  great  house  ;  after  the  sermon,  a  costly 
table  loaded  with  every  delicacy  ;  and,  at  night,  the 
lady  of  the  house  conducts  me  to  a  splendid  room  ; 
but,  as  an  apostle,  I  find  myself  in  rough  quarters, 
a  shake-down  straw  mattress,  a  basin  of  oatmeal, 
and  thankful  for  that, — that  is  an  apostle's  fare  ;  but 
then,  the  apostle  takes  the  highest  rank  among 
Christian  workers." 

Almost  every  age  has  had  men  whose  freedom  of 
speech    and    behaviour    has    enlarged    the    store   of 

one,  for  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  to  reprove  vice,  misconduct, 
and  sin,  whenever  and  wherever  lie  sees  it.  But  especially  is 
this  his  duty  on  Sunday  and  at  church.  This  is  a  duty  I  am 
now  about  to  attend  to. 

"  '  And  now,'  continued  the  reverend  speaker,  pointing  with 
his  long  finger  in  the  direction  indicated,  '  that  man  sitting 
out  yonder  behind  the  door,  who  got  up  and  went  out  while  the 
brother  was  preaching,  stayed  out  as  long  as  he  wanted  to, 
got  his  boots  full  of  mud,  came  back  and  stamped  the  mud 
off  at  the  door,  making  all  the  noise  he  could,  on  purpose  to 
disturb  the  attention  of  the  congregation,  and  then  took  his 
seat;  that  man  thinks  I  mean  him.  No  wonder  he  does.  It 
doesn't  look  as  if  he  had  been  raised  in  the  white  settlements, 
does  it,  to  behave  that  way  at  meeting?  Now,  my  friend,  I'd 
advise  you  to  learn  better  manners  before  you  come  to  church 
next  time. — Biit  I (1011" t  meafi  him. 

"  'And  now,'  again  pointing  at  his  mark,  '  that  little  girl 
sitting  there,  about  half-way  of  the  house — I  should  judge  her 
to  be  about  sixteen  years  old — that's  her  with  the  artificial 
flowers  on  the  outside  of  her  bonnet,  and  the  inside  of  her 
bonnet ;  she  has  a  breast-pin  on,  too '  (they  were  very  severe 
upon  all  superfluities  of  dress),  'she  that  was  giggling  and 
chattering  all  the  time  the  brother  was  preaching,  so  that 
even  the  old  sisters  in  the  neighbourhood  couldn't  hear  what 
he  was  saying,  though  they  tried  to.  She  thinks  I  mean  her. 
I'm  sorry  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for  any  parents  that 
have  raised  a  girl  to  her  time  of  day,  and  haven't  taught  her 
how  to  behave  when  she  comes  to  church.  Little  girl,  you 
have  disgraced  your  parents  as  well  as  yourself.  Behave 
better  next  time,  won't  you  ? — Bid  I  don't  mean  her.'' 

"  Directing  his  finger  to  another  aim,  he  said,  '  That  man 
sitting  there,  that  looks  as  bright  and  pert  as  if  he  never  was 


"THE   CLERICAL  ZANVr  249 

pulpit  anecdote.  But  we  have  before  us  volumes 
of  instances  of  mere  pulpit  drollery  and  coarseness, 
in  which  preaching,  and  even  prayer,  seem  to  shake 
hands  with,  and  say,  "  Hail  fellow  !  well  met ; "  to 
blasphemy.  Such  was  that  greatest  of  all  pulpit 
drolls  and  oddities,  Abraham  Sancta  Clara,  who,  for 
twenty  years,  filled  the  high  position  of  imperial 
court  preacher  to  Leopold  the  First ;  but  he  has 
been  called,  and  we  should  say  very  appropriately, 
"  the  clerical  Zany."     Yet  he  is  said  to  have  had  a 

asleep  in  his  life,  and  never  expected  to  be,  but  that  just  as 
soon  as  the  brother  took  his  text,  laid  his  head  down  on  the 
back  of  the  seat  in  front  of  him,  went  sound  asleep,  slept  the 
whole  time,  and  snored ;  that  man  thinks  I  mean  him.  My 
friend,  don't  you  know  the  church  ain't  the  place  to  sleep  ?  If 
you  needed  rest,  why  didn't  you  stay  at  home,  take  off  your 
clothes,  and  go  to  bed  ?  that's  the  place  to  sleep,  not  church. 
The  next  time  you  have  a  chance  to  hear  a  sermon,  I  advise 
you  to  keep  awake. — Btit  I do7i' t  mean  him.''  Thus  did  he 
proceed,  pointing  out  every  man,  woman,  and  child,  who  had 
in  the  slightest  deviated  from  a  befitting  line  of  conduct ; 
characterising  the  misdemeanour,  and  reading  sharp  lessons 
of  rebuke. 

"Judge  White  was  all  this  time  sitting  at  the  end  of  the 
front  seat,  just  under  the  speaker,  enjoying  the  old  gentleman's 
disquisition  to  the  last  degree  ;  twisting  his  neck  around,  to 
note  if  the  audience  relished  the  '  down-comings  '  as  much  as 
he  did ;  rubbing  his  hands,  smiling,  chuckling  inwardly. 
Between  his  teeth  and  cheek  was  a  monstrous  quid  of  tobacco, 
which,  the  better  he  was  pleased,  the  more  he  chewed  ;  the 
more  he  chewed,  the  more  he  spat,  and  behold,  the  floor  bore 
witness  to  the  results.  At  length,  the  old  gentleman, 
straightening  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  continued,  with 
great  gravity  : — 

"  '  And  now  I  reckon  you  want  to  know  who  I  do  mean.  I 
mean  that  dirty,  nasty,  filthy  tobacco-chewer,  sitting  on  the 
end  of  that  front  seat ' — his  finger,  meanwhile,  pointing  true 
as  the  needle  to  the  pole — '  see  what  he  has  been  about ! 
Look  at  those  puddles  on  the  floor ;  a  frog  wouldn't  get  into 
them  ;  tliink  of  the  tails  of  the  sisters'  dresses  being  dragged 
through  that  muck.'  The  crest-fallen  judge  averred  that  he 
never  chewed  any  more  tobacco  in  church." 


250      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

genuine  enthusiasm  for  religion  and  virtue  ;  he  had 
a  mighty  mastery  of  language,  a  very  animated 
delivery,  and  an  excoriating  satire  ;  but  his  humour 
was  of  the  broadest  description,  and  sometimes 
most  irreverent. 

What  a  droll  and  almost  disgraceful  illustration 
we  have  in  his  sermon  on  the  Prodigal  Son  ! 

"From  what  place  he  took  his  title  (seeing  he  was  a 
nobleman),  has  not  yet  been  discovered ;  but  I  believe  it 
was  Maidsberg  or  Womenham,  What  was  the  device  in  his 
coat  of  arms,  no  one  has  described ;  but  I  believe  it  was  a 
sow's  stomach  in  a  field  verd. 

"This  chap  travelled  with  well-larded  purse  through 
various  countries  and  provinces,  and  returned  no  better  but 
rather  worse.  So  it  often  happens  still,  that  many  a  noble 
youth  has  his  travels  changed  to  travails.  Not  seldom  also, 
he  goes  forth  a  good  German  and  returns  a  bad  Herman. 
What  honour  or  credit  is  it  to  the  noble  river  Danube  that 
it  travels  through  different  lands,  through  Suabia,  Bavaria, 
Austria,  Hungary,  and  at  last  unites  with  a  sow?  The  pious 
Jacob  saw,  in  his  journey,  a  ladder  to  heaven ;  but  alas  ! 
many  of  our  Quality  find,  in  their  journeys,  a  ladder  into 
hell.  If,  nowadays,  a  man  travel  not,  he  is  called  a 
Jack-in-the-corner,  and  one  who  has  set  up  his  rest  behind 
the  stove.  But  tell  me,  dear  half  Germans !  (for  whole 
Germans  ye  have  long  ceased  to  be),  is  it  not  true  ?  Ye 
send  your  sons  out  that  they  may  learn  strange  vices  at 
great  cost  in  stranger-lands,  when,  with  far  less  expense, 
they  might  be  acquiring  virtues  at  home.  They  return  with 
no  more  point  to  them  than  they  went  out  with,  except  that 
they  bring  home  some  new  fashion  of  pomt-\z.ce.  They 
return  no  more  gallant,  unless  it  be  that  gallant  comes  from 
the  French  galant.  They  return  more  splendidly  clad,  but 
good  habits  were  better  than  to  be  finely  habited.     New- 


THE  PRODIGAL   SON,  251 

fashioned  hats,  new-fashioned  periwigs,  new-fashioned 
collars,  new-fashioned  coats,  new-fashioned  breeches,  new- 
fashioned  hose,  new-fashioned  shoes,  new-fashioned  ribbons, 
new-fashioned  buttons, — also  new-fashioned  consciences 
creep  into  our  beloved  Germany  through  your  travels. 
Your  fool's  frocks  change  too  with  every  moon ;  and  soon 
the  tailors  will  have  to  establish  a  university,  and  take 
Doctor's  degrees,  and  afterwards  bear  the  title  of  Right- 
reverend  Doctors  of  fashion. 

"If  I  had  all  the  new  fashions  of  coats  for  four-and- 
twenty  years,  I  would  almost  make  a  curtain  before  the  sun 
with  them,  so  that  men  should  go  about  with  lanterns  in 
the  daytime.  At  least,  I  would  undertake  to  hide  all 
Turkey  with  them,  so  that  the  Constantinopolitans  should 
think  their  Mahomed  was  playing  blind-the-cat  with  them. 
An  old  witch,  at  the  request  of  King  Saul,  called  the  prophet 
Samuel  from  the  dead,  that  he  might  know  the  result  of  his 
arms.  It  will  soon  come  to  pass,  that  people  w-ill  want  to 
call  from  the  dead  the  identical  tailor  and  master  who  made 
the  beautiful  Esther's  garment,  when  she  was  so  well- 
pleasing  in  the  eyes  of  Ahasuerus 

"  So  the  prodigal  son  learned  but  little  good  in  foreign 
lands.  His  doing  was  wooing  ;  his  thinking  was  drinking ; 
his  Latin  was  Proficiat;  his  Italian,  Brindisi;  his  Bohemian, 
Sasdravi ;  his  German,  Gesegnets  Gott.  In  one  word,  he 
was  a  goodly  fellow  always  mellow,  a  vagrant,  a  bacc/iant, 
an  amant,  a  turbant,  a  distillant,  etc.  Now  he  had  wasted 
his  substance  in  foreign  provinces,  and  torn  his  conscience 
to  tatters  as  well  as  his  clothes.  He  might,  with  truth, 
have  said  to  his  father  what  the  brothers  of  Joseph  said, 
without  truth,  to  Jacob  when  they  showed  him  the  bloody 
coat,  ^fera  pessimal  etc.,  "an  evil  beast  hath  devoured 
him."  An  evil  beast  devoured  the  prodigal  son;  an  evil 
beast,  the  golden  eagle,  an  evil  beast,  the  golden  griffin,  an 
evil  beast,  the  golden  buck,  an  evil  beast,  the  golden  bear. 
These  tavern-beasts  reduced  the  youngster  to  that  condition 


252      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

that  his  breeclies  were  as  transparent  as  a  fisherman's  net, 
his  stomach  shrunk  together  Hke  an  empty  bladder,  and  the 
mirror  of  his  misery  was  to  be  seen  on  the  sleeve  of  his 
dirty  doublet,  etc.  And  now  v.'hen  the  scamp  had  got  sick 
of  the  swine-diet,  more  wholesome  thoughts  came  into  his 
mind,  and  he  would  go  straight  home  to  his  old  father  and 
seek  a  favourable  hearing  at  his  feet ;  in  which  he  succeeded 
according  to  his  wish.  And  his  own  father  fell  quite 
lovingly  on  the  neck  of  the  bad  vocativo,  for  which  a  rope 
would  have  been  fitter.  Yea,  he  was  introduced  with 
special  joy  and  jubilee  into  the  paternal  dwelling,  sudden 
preparations  were  made  for  a  feast,  kitchen  and  cellar  were 
put  in  requisition,  and  the  best  and  fattest  calf  must  be 
killed  in  a  hurry  and  cooked  and  roasted.  Away  with  the 
rags  and  tatters  !  and  hurrah  for  the  velvet  coat  and  the 
prinked-up  hat  and  a  gold  ring !  Bring  on  your  fiddlers ! 
allegro  !  '^ 

But,  as  we  have  said,  coarseness  is  usually  synony- 
mous with  hardness,  while  genuine  humour  is  always 
in  alliance  with  tenderness.  Drollery,  we  have  said 
already,  is  usually  wit,  or  humour,  vulgarised  on 
ignorant  lips,  and  made  palatable  and  acceptable 
to  the  ignorant  and  the  vulgar.  The  popular  friar 
preachers  and  the  hedge  priests  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
who  took  mightily  with  the  vulgar,  were  very  much 
of  this  stamp.  Here  is  a  choice  extract  from  one 
Pere  Guerin,  preaching,  apparently,  to  one  Theodore 
Viaud,  in  1625,  who,  for  writing  a  book  reflecting  on 
the  immorality  of  the  monks,  was  condemned  to  be 
burned  with  his  book.  "  Cursed,"  howled  the 
preacher,  "  be  the  spirit  which  dictated  such  thoughts  ; 
cursed  be  the  hand  which  wrote  them  !  Woe  to  the 
publisher  who  had  them  printed,  woe  to  those  who 
read   them !     Woe    to   those    who    ever    made    the 


THE  MIDDLE  AGES.  253 

author's  acquaintance !  But,  blessed  be  Monsieur 
Le  Premier  President ;  blessed  be  Monsieur  le 
Procureur  General,  who  have  purged  our  Paris  of 
this  plague.  You  are  the  originator  of  the  plague 
in  this  great  city.  I  would  say,  after  the  Rev. 
Father  Garasse,  you  are  a  scoundrel,  a  great  calf; 
but  no,  shall  I  call  you  a  calf?  Veal  is  good  when 
boiled,  veal  is  good  when  roasted,  calf  skin  is  good 
for  binding  books  ;  but  yours,  miscreant,  is  only  fit 
to  be  well  grilled,  and  that  it  will  be  to-morrow. 
You  have  raised  a  laugh  at  monks,  and  now  we 
monks  will  raise  a  laugh  at  you." 

The  history  of  the  pulpit  of  the  dark  and  middle 
ages  is  full  of  these  outrages  on  decency  and  taste. 
One  of  the  more  innocent  of  these  droll  oddities  was 
Meffreth,  a  preacher  full  of  ingenuity  and  allegory, 
and  some  of  his  allegories  sufficiently  strange.  Thus, 
from  the  text,  "  Here  we  have  no  continuing  city,"  he 
compares  this  world  of  ours  to  the  weed-covered  back 
of  a  large  whale,  which  a  traveller,  navigating  the 
seas,  mistook  for  a  pleasant  and  green  island,  and  did 
not  discover  his  mistake  until  he  began  to  drive  the 
stakes  of  his  habitation  into  the  creature,  which  he 
had  mistaken  for  an  abiding  dwelling-place.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  droll  image,  but  not  altogether  inapt,  unjust, 
or  uninstructive. 

It  is  not  easy  to  limit  and  determine  the  de- 
finition of  pulpit  eccentricity  ;  in  some  sense,  every 
greatly  em  nent  preacher  must  be  eccentric ;  he 
moves  in  an  elliptic,  rather  than  in  a  circular  sphere  ; 
he  excites  attention  by  being  irregular,  and  passing 
beyond  the  ordinary  orbit  or  groove  ;  in  this  sense, 
the    richest  and  most  sustained  order  of  eloquence 


254      ^^^  ^ND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

may  be  spoken  of  as  eccentric.  But  humour,  the 
possession  of  humour,  and  the  use  of  it  in  the  pulpit, 
may  be  so  wielded  and  employed  as  scarcely  to  fall 
beneath  the  denomination  of  eccentricity.  When 
good  sense  and  good  taste  combine  with  homely 
cheerfulness  on  the  lips  of  devout  genius,  we  are 
very  likely  to  have  some  pleasant  and  instructive 
strokes  of  humour.  "  God,"  said  an  old  Scotch 
Divine,  quoted  by  that  perfect  pulpit  master, 
William  Jay,  "  God  had  but  one  only  begotten  Son, 
and  He  made  a  preacher  of  Him  ; "  and  the  truth  of 
the  remark  may  surely  atone  for  its  homeliness. 
William  Jay  frequently  employed  an  easy,  happy 
humour,  yet  he  never  passed  beyond  the  regions 
of  good  taste  and  good  sense.  For  example,  he 
imparted  to  a  large  congregation  a  rich  sense  of 
enjoyment  in  preaching  from  the  story  of  Micah,  the 
priest-maker.  After  mentioning  the  text,  "  Now 
know  I  that  the  Lord  will  do  me  good  seeing  that 
I  have  a  Levite  to  my  priest,"  he  said  :  "  Let  us 
enter  into  this  story.  Here  is  an  old  woman,  very 
covetous,  and  yet  very  religious  in  her  way.  She  had 
saved  up  eleven  hundred  shekels  of  silver,  and  hid 
them,  but  Micah,  her  son,  soon  finds  and  seizes  the 
treasure  (for  there  are  children  who  are  neither 
ashamed  nor  afraid  to  steal  from  their  parents),  upon 
which  the  old  woman  falls  into  a  passion,  and  not 
only  raves  but  curses.  Her  imprecating  the  Divine 
vengeance  upon  the  head  of  the  thief  terrified  Micah  ; 
he  confessed  the  roguery,  and  restored  the  money. 
This  threw  her  into  an  ecstacy  of  pleasure,  so  that, 
instead  of  upbraiding  him,  she  exclaims,  '  Blessed  be 
thou  of  the   Lord,   my  son  !  '  declaring  at  the  same 


MICAH  THE  PRIEST-MAKER.  255 

time  she  intended  the  whole  sum  for  himself.  *  I 
had  wholly  dedicated  the  silver  unto  the  Lord  from 
my  hand,  for  my  son  to  make  a  graven  image  and  a 
molten  image.'  The  property,  however,  though  wholly 
pledged,  was  too  precious,  on  recovery,  to  be  wholly 
parted  with.  She,  therefore,  keeps  nine  hundred 
shekels,  and  squeezes  out  only  two  for  the  sacred 
service  ;  these  she  gave  to  the  founder,  who  made 
thereof  a  graven  image,  and  a  molten  image,  and  they 
were  in  the  house  of  Micah.  Thus  a  species  of 
idolatry  entered  into  the  family,  and  from  this  family 
spread  through  the  whole  tribe  of  Dan.  Then,  by- 
and-bye,  a  strolling  Levite,  one  who  had  gone  abroad 
in  search  of  employment  and  promotion,  in  his 
vagabond  rambles  comes  to  Mount  Ephraim,  and  to 
the  house  of  Micah.  He  says  he  is  going  on  until 
he  can  find  a  place  where  he  may  sojourn  ;  Micah 
says  to  him,  '  Dwell  with  me,  and  be  unto  me  a  father 
and  a  priest,  and  I  will  give  thee  ten  shekels  of 
silver  by  the  year,  and  a  suit  of  apparel,  and  thy 
victuals.'  Clothes,  and  food,  and  twenty-five  shillings 
a  year !  No  great  matter,  for  the  ministry,  although 
always  a  good  calling,  is  a  bad  trade.  But  the  Levite 
was  content,  and  his  employer  was  happy.  '  Now  know 
I  that  the  Lord  will  do  me  good,  seeing  I  have  a 
Levite  to  my  priest.'  "  When  Mr.  Jay  preached  this 
sermon  he  was  in  the  prime  and  fulness  of  his 
freshness  and  his  strength.  Words  can  never  read 
as  they  were  spoken  ;  but  one  who  heard  it  has 
told  us  how,  with  perfect  good  taste,  the  manner  of 
the  preacher  brought  out,  with  what  amounted  to 
drollery,  the  covetousness,  the  cursing  and  swearing 
of  the    old    woman,   the    theft   of  the   son,   and  his 


256      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

superstitious  fear,  culminating  at  last  in  an  act  of 
idolatry.  And  all  this  time  they  supposed  themselves 
to  be  very  religious,  and  doing  nothing  contrary  to  the 
spirituality  of  the  Hebrew  worship,  while  they  were 
actually  engaged  in  breaking  the  most  imperative 
commandments  of  the  moral  law.  We  have  cited 
this  instance  not  merely  as  an  illustration  of  the 
possibility,  of  which  Mr,  Jay  was  an  eminent 
example,  of  retaining  in  the  pulpit  perfect  good 
taste  with  a  lively  play  of  humour,  and  yet  not 
passing  into  irreverent  eccentricity  ;  but,  we  shall  say 
further,  there  is  a  human  hfe  in  innumerable  Bible 
stories  which  can  only  be  elicited,  drawn  forth,  and 
made  instructive  by  the  soul  of  humour.  We  will 
narrow,  therefore,  our  idea  of  admiration  for  humour 
in  the  pulpit  to  the  men  who  have  felt  the  freshness 
and  fulness  of  a  glowing  human  soul,  but  who  were 
still  ardent  in  their  desire  to  enlighten  the  minds,  to 
save  the  souls,  and  to  comfort  the  hearts  of  those 
who  heard  them.  Such  men  scarcely  attempted  to 
restrain  their  humour,  but  it  was  hallowed  by  the 
desire  to  lift  the  audience  out  of  the  region  of  every- 
day life,  out  of  the  region  of  sorrow  and  sin,  out  of 
the  region  of  doubt  and  suffering. 

One  of  the  most  sanctified  and  eminently  holy  men 
who  assumed  drollery  as,  if  not  his  chief,  one  of  his 
very  chief  weapons  in  dealing  with  sin  and  sinners, 
was  John  Berridge,  the  good  old  Vicar  of  Everton  ; 
he  was  droll,  but  it  is  impossible  to  pronounce  his 
name  in  any  other  manner  than  that  of  reverence  ; 
or,  shall  we  modify  the  estimate,  and  say  that  it  was 
the  manner, — it  was  the  play  of  the  mouth,  and  that 
most   impudent-looking   nose,  which    gave    effect  to 


A   SERMON  ON  A    TOMBSTONE.  257 


strokes  of  wit  and  humour,  and  which,  on  his  h'ps, 
perhaps  became  as  really  sacred  a  thing— if  the 
expression  be  permitted — as  on  those  of  any  man 
gifted  with  such  a  dangerous  faculty.  He  wrote  his 
own  epitaph,  and  here  it  is,  itself,  as  plainly  as  any 
word  he  ever  wrote,  revealing  what  manner  of  man 
the  quaint  but  really  earnest  old  vicar  of  Everton 
was.  We  read  it  ourselves,  some  time  since,  in 
Everton  churchyard,  whither  we  walked  from 
Potton,  to  realize  the  spot  where  the  old  vicar 
wrought  out  the  work  of  his  quietly  busy  and 
honourably  amusing  career  ;  we  thought,  at  any  rate, 
that  he  had  contrived  to  preach  a  sermon  on  his 
tombstone  ; 

Here  lie  , 

The  earthly  remains  of 

John  Berridge, 

Late  Vicar  of  Everton, 

And  an  itinerant  servant  of  Jesus  Christ, 

Who  loved  his  Master  and  His  work, 

And,  after  running  on  His  errands  many  years, 

Was  called  to  wait  on  Him  above. 

Reader, 

Art  thou  born  again  ? 

No  Salvation  without  New-Birth  I 

I  was  bom  in  Sin,  February,  17 16. 

Remained  ignorant  of  my  fallen  state  till  1730. 

Lived  proudly  on  Faith  and  Works  for  Salvation  till  1754. 

Admitted  to  Everton  Vicarage,  1755. 

Fled  to  Jesus  alone  for  Refuge,  1756. 

Fell  asleep- in  Christ,  January  22nd,  1793. 

But  the  words  of  honest  John  Berridge,  if  they 
were  droll,  were  seasoned   with  the  salt  of  a  good 

17 


258      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT 

conversation,  which  has  often  been  wanting  to  the 
words  of  those  who  have  indulged  themselves  as  he 
did  ;  thus  he  describes  the  doctrine  of  the  contingency 
of  the  promise  of  the  grace  of  eternal  life  under  the 
image  of 

SERGEANT   IF. 

**  The  doctrine  of  perseverance  affords  a  stable  prop  to 
upright  minds,  yet  lends  no  wanton  cloak  to  corrupt  hearts. 
It  brings  a  cordial  to  revive  the  faint,  and  keeps  a  guard  to 
check  the  froward.  The  guard  attending  on  this  doctrine 
is  Sergeant  If;  low  in  stature,  but  lofty  in  significance  ;  a 
very  valiant  guard,  though  a  monosyllable.  Kind  notice 
has  been  taken  of  the  Sergeant  by  Jesus  Christ  and  His 
apostles ;  and  much  respect  is  due  unto  him,  from  all 
the  Lord'*  recruiting  officers,  and  every  soldier  in  His 
army. 

"  Pray  listen  to  the  Sergeant's  speech  : — '  If  ye  continue 
in  my  word,  then  are  ye  my  disciples  indeed '  (John  viii. 
31).  *If  ye  do  these  things  ye  shall  never  fall '  (2  Peter  i. 
10).  *lf  what  ye  have  heard  shall  abide  in  you,  ye  shall 
continue  in  the  Son  and  in  the  Father'  (i  John  ii.  24). 
'  We  are  made  partakers  of  Christ,  if  we  hold  fast  unto  the 
end'(Heb.  iii.  14).  'Whoso  looketh  and  continueth  (that 
is,  IF  he  that  looketh  does  continue)  in  the  perfect  law  of 
liberty,  that  man  shall  be  blessed  in  his  deed'  (James  i. 

"  Yet  take  notice.  Sir,  that  Sergeant  If  is  not  of  Jewish, 
but  of  Christian  parentage ;  not  sprung  from  Levi,  though  a 
son  of  Abraham ;  no  sentinel  of  Moses,  but  a  watchman  for 
the  camp  of  Jesus." 

But,  again,  drollery  in  the  pulpit !  Artemus 
Ward  in  the  pulpit  !  surely  there  is  something 
shocking  and  repulsive  in  the  idea.     Surely  it  is  not 


CHILDREN  OF  HUMOUR.  259 


so  that  we  can  conceive  the  Master  of  preachers  ever 
preaching.     Surely  not  so  did  the  apostles   preach. 
Not  so  ever   could   they   preach    who   lived   on  the 
confines  of  eternity,  and  there  should  the    preacher 
ever  find  the  home  of  his  thought  and  his  heart  ;  to 
permit  the  undisciplined  fancy  to  mount  a  grotesque 
idea,  and  set  forth   prancing  and  curveting,   almost 
to   the    astonishment  and   laughter  of  an  audience, 
whose  lowest  nature  will  no  doubt  be  tickled,  while 
the  highest  intentions  of  the  pulpit  are  thus  entirely 
kept  out  of  sight.      Surely  if  the  preacher  who  goes 
into  the  pulpit  to  say  fine  things  commits  a  great 
sin,  not  less  does   he  sin  who  turns  the  pulpit  into 
a  booth,  on  whose  boards  he  gives  forth  his  queer, 
extravagant,  and  droll  things,  for  drollery  is  satire  on 
the  lips   of  the  clown  ;  it  is  truth  degraded  to    the 
party  colours  of  the  harlequin,  or  the  buskin  of  the 
fool,    grinning    to    make    the    multitude    grin  ;    yet 
nature  will  come  out  on  the  lips  of  men  who  love 
to  be  at  the  mercy  of  their  own  fancies.     This  also 
must  be  said  in  defence  of  some  of  these  children 
of  humour,  whose  lives  were  nevertheless  holy  and 
sanctified,  that  the  droll  things  abide  in  the  memory 
of  the  audience,  when  the  serious  things,  and  even 
the  intentions  and  lessons  of  the  droll  things  them- 
selves, are  forgotten  and  pass  away. 

Such  a  preacher  was  Jacob  Kruber,  of  America, 
to  whom  we  have  already  referred  ;  he  seemed  to 
riot  in  the  pulpit,  and  become  intoxicated  upon  the 
schnapps  of  his  own  free  humour;  perhaps  he  was 
the  Rowland  Hill  of  his  country  and  his  denomina- 
tion. When  in  Huntington,  U.S.,  the  Universalists— 
who    had  become  a  large   body  there   beneath  the 


2bo      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

teaching  and  leadership  of  a  person  named  Crow, 
and  who  were  influenced  by  the  flattering  doctrine, 
that  men  and  women  dying  unconverted  in  this 
world  would  be  converted  in  the  next — came  with 
their  preacher,  in  thronging  multitudes,  to  hear  him 
and  to  mock  him.  After  a  strong  assault  upon  the 
doctrine  itself,  Kruber  exclaimed,  *'  Now,  any  man 
who  could  conceive  such  a  thing  must  be  born  in  a 
crow's  nest,  and  he  must  have  been  brought  up  in  a 
crow's  nest,  as  he  never  could  get  up  any  higher. 
He  must  have  been  fed  on  dry  bones,  without  any 
meat  on  them,  or  marrow  in  them.  Lord,  stir  up 
this  crow's  nest  !  Lord  !  the  crow  is  a  very  ugly 
bird  ;  if  is  all  black, — make  it  white.  It  has  a  very 
harsh  croaking  noise — Lord,  put  a  new  song  in 
its  mouth,  even  praise  to  our  God.  Lord,  give  it 
wings,  that  it  may  fly  away  to  the  third  heaven,  and 
be  converted  ; "  and  we  read  that  such  poor  drollery 
shot  poor  Crow.  Kruber,  like  most  of  these  droll 
men,  had  as  much  horror  of  anything  graceful  in  a 
sermon  as  he  had  of  anything  attractive  and  beauti- 
ful in  a  dress,  and  he  took  real  pleasure  in  trying 
how  rough  and  uncouth  he  could  be  in  his  expres- 
sions in  the  pulpit.  The  Latter  Day  Saints  told  him 
their  meat  was  too  strong  for  him  ;  he  said,  "  Yes, 
it  is  very  strong  !  it  is  tainted  ;  go  and  bury  it,  that 
it  may  not  poison  any  person."  Then  he  suggested 
a  change  of  two  words  in  the  designation  of  their 
sect,  instead  of  "  day,"  say  "  night  "  !  and  instead  of 
"  saints,"  say  "  owls."  Cautioning  against  the  reliance 
on  conversion,  however  clear  and  satisfactory,  instead 
of  aiming  at  daily  growth  in  grace,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Some    people  believe  if  you    are    once  converted. 


VELVET-LIPPED  MODERN  PREACHERS.    261 


you  are  just  as  safe  as  if  already  in  heaven— and  the 
door  shut,  and  the  key  lost."  Perhaps  few  of  our 
readers  have  seen,  or  will  have  any  objection  to 
read,  his  satire  upon  fashionable  preachers,  and 
their  modes  of  meeting  and  helping,  in  cases  of 
conversion. 

He  chose  for  his  subject  the  conversion  of  Saul  of 
Tarsus.  Ananias,  who  resided  at  Damascus,  was 
made  to  represent  the  velvet-lipped  modern  preacher. 
He  thus  introduced  the  subject  : — 

"  A  great  many  years  ago  a  bold  blasphemer  was  smitten 
by  conviction  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  Damascus  to  per- 
secute the  Christians.  He  was  taken  to  Damascus  in  great 
distress.  Ananias,  after  hearing  of  the  concern  of  mind 
under  which  Paul  was  labouring,  started  out  to  find  him.  It 
seems  that  he  was  stopping  at  the  house  of  a  gentleman  of 
the  name  of  Judas— not  Judas  Iscariot,  for  that  person  had 
been  dead  several  years.  The  residence  of  this  gentleman 
was  in  the  street  which  was  called  Straight.  I  suppose  it  was 
the  main  street,  or  Broadway  of  the  city,  and  hence  it  was 
not  difficult  to  find.  Arriving  at  the  mansion,  he  rang  the 
bell,  and  soon  a  servant  made  her  appearance.  He 
addressed  her  thus :  *  Is  the  gendeman  of  the  house,  Mr. 
Judas,  within?  '  'Yes,  sir,'  responded  the  servant,  '  he  is 
at  home.'  Taking  out  a  glazed,  gilt-edged  card,  on  which 
was  printed,  Rev.  Mr.  Ananias,  he  handed  it  to  the  servant 
and  said  :  *  Take  this  card  to  him  quickly.'  Taking  a  seat, 
with  his  hat,  cane,  and  gloves  in  his  left  hand,  his  right 
being  employed  in  arranging  his  classical  curls  so  as  to 
present  as  much  of  an  intellectual  air  as  possible,  he  awaited 
an  answer.  Presently  Mr.  Judas  makes  his  appearance, 
whereupon  Mr.  Ananias  rises,  and  making  a  graceful  bow, 
says:  '  Have  I  the  honour  to  address  Mr.  Judas,  the  gentle- 
man of  the  house?'     'That  is  my  name,  sir;   please  be 


262      TVIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

seated.'  *  I  have  called,  Mr.  Judas,  to  inquire  if  a  gentle- 
man by  the  name  of  Mr.  Saul,  a  legate  of  the  high  priest  at 
Jerusalem,  is  a  guest  at  your  house  ? '  '  Yes,  sir  ;  Mr.  Saul 
is  in  his  chamber,  in  very  great  distress  and  trouble  of  mind. 
He  was  brought  here  yesterday,  having  fallen  from  his 
horse  a  few  miles  from  the  city  on  the  Jerusalem-road.'  'Oh ! 
I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  of  so  painful  an  accident.  I  hope 
he  is  not  dangerously  wounded.'  'No,  sir,  I  think  not, 
though  the  fall  has  affected  his  sight  very  much,  and  he 
complains  considerably  and  prays  a  good  deal.'  '  Well,  I 
am  very  sorry ;  but  that  is  not  very  strange,  as  I  believe  he 
belongs  to  that  sect  of  the  Jews  called  Pharisees,  who  make 
much  of  praying.  How  long  since  he  received  this  fall,  Mr. 
Judas  ? '  '  About  three  days  since,  and  all  the  time  he  has 
not  taken  any  refreshment  or  rest.'  *  Indeed  !  you  don't  say 
so  !  he  must  be  seriously  hurt.  May  I  be  permitted  to  see 
Mr.  Saul  ? '  'I  will  ascertain  his  pleasure,  Mr.  Ananias, 
and  let  you  know  if  you  can  have  an  interview.'  After 
being  gone  a  short  time  Mr.  Judas  returns,  and  says  :  '  Mr. 
Saul  will  be  much  pleased  to  see  you.'  When  he  is  ushered 
into  his  presence  Saul  is  reclining  on  his  couch  in  a  room 
partially  darkened.  Approaching  him,  Ananias  says  :  *  How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Saul  ?  I  understood  you  had  done  our  city 
the  honour  of  a  visit.  Hope  you  had  a  pleasant  journey. 
How  did  you  leave  all  the  friends  at  Jerusalem  ?  How  did 
you  leave  the  high  priest  ?  We  have  very  fine  weather,  Mr. 
Saul.  I  thought  I  would  call  and  pay  my  respects  to  you, 
as  I  was  anxious  to  have  some  conversation  with  you  on 
theological  subjects.  I  am  extremely  sorry  to  hear  of  the 
accident  that  happened  to  you  in  visiting  our  city,  and  hope 
you  will  soon  recover  from  your  indisposition.' " 

No  man  sinned  more  in  this  way  than  the  cele- 
brated Rowland  Hill.  He  also  was  a  droll  in 
the   pulpit.     We   have  heard  him  indulging  in  ex- 


ROWLAND  HILL  AND   THE  SOW.  263 


cursions,  in  his  extreme  old  age,  which  we  suppose 
would  scarcely  be  tolerated  now  ;  and  many  of  the 
anecdotes  recorded  of  him  are  alike  intolerable  to 
good  sense,  good  taste,  and  Christian  feeling.  Ramb- 
ling and  digressive,  he  seemed  to  be  at  the  mercy  of 
his  humour,  and  to  follow  it  whithersoever  it  led 
him. 

On  one  occasion,  he  said  : — 

«'  The  mere  professor  reminds  me  of  a  sow  that  I  saw  two 
hours  ago  luxuriating  in  her  sty  when  almost  over  head  and 
ears  in  the  mire.  Now,  suppose  any  of  you  were  to  take 
Bess  (the  sow)  and  wash  her,  and  suppose  after  having 
dressed  her  in  a  silk  gown,  and  put  a  smart  cap  upon  her 
head,  you  were  to  take  her  into  any  of  your  parlours,  and 
were  to  set  her  down  to  tea  in  company,  she  might  look 
very  demure  for  a  time,  and  might  not  give  even  a  single 
grunt ;  but  you  would  observe  that  she  occasionally  gave  a 
sly  look  towards  the  door,  which  showed  that  she  felt  her- 
self in  an  uncomfortable  position;  and  the  moment  she 
perceived  that  the  door  was  open  she  would  give  another 
proof  of  the  fact  by  running  out  of  the  room  as  fast  as  she 
could.  Follow  the  sow,  with  her  silk  gown  and  her  fancy 
cap,  and  in  a  few  seconds  you  will  find  that  she  has  returned 
to  her  sty  and  is  again  wallowing  in  the  mire.  Just  so  it  is 
with  the  unrenewed  man ;  sin  is  his  element ;  and  though 
he  may  be  induced  from  a  variety  of  motives  to  put  on  at 
times  a  show  of  religion,  you  will  easily  perceive  that  he 
feels  himself  to  be  under  unpleasant  restraints,  and  that  he 
will  return  to  his  sins  whenever  an  opportunity  of  doing  so, 
unknown  to  his  acquaintances,  presents  itself  to  him." 

But  this  is  not  the  whole  of  Rowland  Hill  ;  his 
beauty  and  true  excellence  are  forgotten,  and  only 
the    frequent     coarsenesses    are     now    remembered. 


254      ^^-^  -^^D  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT, 

although  Robert  Hall,  we  understand,  hyperboHcally 
said  of  him,  "  No  man  has  ever  drawn,  since  the 
days  of  our  Saviour,  such  sublime  images  from 
nature ;  here  Mr.  Hill  excels  every  other  man." 
He  had  a  rapid  succession  of  many-coloured  and 
many-shaped  ideas,  and  of  their  singularity  even 
Mr.  Edwin  Sydney,  his  nephew  and  biographer,  gives 
many  illustrations.  This  was  remarkable  in  his 
collection  sermons,  "  There  is,"  he  exclaimed  once, 
"a  perpetual  frost  in  the  pockets  of  some  wealthy 
people  ;  as  soon  as  they  put  their  hands  into  them, 
they  are  frozen  and  unable  to  draw  out  their  purses. 
Had  I  my  way,  I  would  hang  all  misers,  but  the 
reverse  of  the  common  mode  ;  I  would  hang  them 
up  by  the  heels,  that  their  money  might  run  out  of 
their  pockets,  and  make  a  famous  scramble  for  you 
to  pick  up  and  put  in  the  plate."  On  a  wet  day, 
when  a  number  of  persons  tool:  shelter  in  his  chapel 
during  a  heavy  shower,  while  he  was  in  the  pulpit, 
he  said,  "  Many  people  are  greatly  blamed  for  mak- 
ing their  religion  a  cloak  ;  but  I  do  not  think  those 
are  much  better  who  make  it  an  umbrella."  When 
he  was  told  he  did  not  preach  to  the  elect — upon  an 
early  opportunity,  in  the  pulpit,  he  said,  "  I  don't 
know  them,  or  I  would  preach  to  them.  Have  the 
goodness  to  mark  them  with  a  bit  of  chalk,  and  then 
I'll  talk  to  them."  "  I  don't  like  those  mighty  fine 
preachers,"  he  said,  "  who  so  beautifully  round  off 
all  their  sentences  that  they  are  sure  to  roll  off 
the  sinner's  conscience."  *'  Never  mind  breaking 
grammar,"  he  said  to  his  excellent  co-pastor, 
Theophilus  Jones,  "  if  the  Lord  enables  you  to  break 
the  poor  sinner's  heart."     A  strange  illustration  he 


THE  SWINE  AND  THE  BEANS.  265 

gave   when  he  introduced  his  sermon  on  the  text, 
"  We  are  not  ignorant  of  his  devices  "  : — 

•'  Many  years  since  I  met  a  drove  of  pigs  in  one  of  the 
streets  of  a  large  town,  and  to  my  surprise  they  were  not 
driven,  but  quietly  followed  their  leader.  This  singular 
fact  excited  my  curiosity ;  and  I  pursued  the  swine,  until 
they  all  quietly  entered  the  butchery  ;  I  then  asked  the 
man  how  he  succeeded  in  getting  the  poor  stupid,  stubborn 
pigs  so  willingly  to  follow  him,  when  he  told  me  the  secret : 
— He  had  a  basket  of  beans  under  his  arm ;  and  kept 
dropping  them  as  he  proceeded,  and  so  secured  his  object. 
Ah  1  my  dear  hearers,  the  devil  has  got  his  basket  of  beans, 
and  he  knows  how  to  suit  his  temptations  to  every  sinner. 
He  drops  them  by  the  way ;  the  poor  sinner  is  thus  led 
captive  by  the  devil  at  his  own  will ;  and  if  the  grace  of 
God  prevent  not,  he  will  get  him  at  last  into  his  butchery, 
and  there  he  will  keep  him  for  ever.  Oh,  it  is  because  '  we 
are  not  ignorant  of  his  devices,'  that  we  are  anxious  this 
evening  to  guard  you  against  them." 

The  illustration  is  not  very  elegant,  but  it  would 
tell  on  many  rude  natures  ;  it  was  Scriptural,  it 
was  human,  and  true.  The  remarkable  fact  about 
it  was  that  it  affected,  and  became  the  means  of  the 
conversion  of  a  man  of  culture,  an  officer,  home 
from  Indian  service.* 

Dean  Ramsay  tells  a  story  of  some  old  Scottish 
lady  who,  while  mourning  over  the  moral  state  of 
one  of  her  relatives,  exclaimed,  "  Our  John  swears 
awfu' ;  and  we  try  to  correct  him  ;  but,"  she  added, 

*  The  writer  may  be  permitted  to  refer  to  a  series  of  papers 
by  himself  on  Rowland  Hill  in  T/ie  Sunday  at  Home,  for  1877, 
in  which  are  collected  the  circumstances  of  the  life,  and  charac- 
teristics of  the  humour,  of  this  very  remarkable  preacher. 


266      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

in  a  candid  and  apologetic  tone,  "  nae  doubt  it  is  a 
great  set-aff  to  conversation."      It  seems  to  be  even 
so    with    pulpit   drollery   and    humour.      It    is   very 
much  condemned,  but  no  doubt  it  is  a  great  set-oft 
to  the  pulpit.      It  has  been  said,   "  In  every  denomi- 
nation  there    will   occasionally    spring    up    a   *  Tom 
Bradbury,'  preaching  with  eccentricity  enough,  and 
drollery  enough  to  afflict  the  Church  and  to  amuse 
the  world.      Billy  Dawson  was  one  of  this   stamp." 
The  writer  can  know  neither  the  one  preacher  nor 
the  other  to  whom  he  refers.      We  glanced,   as  we 
read  this,  to  the  eleven  volumes  of  the  sermons  of 
Bradbury — TJie    Great    Mystery    of   Godliness,    and 
the  Christus  in   CcbIo — and  felt  that  some  wonderful 
injustice  had  been  done  to  his  memory  ;  his  wit  and 
humour  were  like  the  wit  and  humour  of  South,  but 
seem  to  have  been  more  rich  and  genial  ;  they  were 
not  consecrated  to  flatter  a  corrupt  court  and  trium- 
phant  cause,    and   did    not    at    all    mar   the   ample 
knowledge,  and  sound  and  lofty  views  of  evangelical 
truth,    and   copious   acquaintance  with  Scripture  by 
which  he  delighted  his  hearers  :  even  his  celebrated 
sermon,  "  The  Ass  and  the  Serpent"  contains  little 
that  the  fastidious  of  our  day  could  condemn.      He 
hated  the  Stuarts,  and  in  his  sermons  he  maintained, 
at  once  with  indignation  and  humour,  the  right  of  a 
people  to  resist  tyrants. 

But  "  Tom  Bradbury "  has  some  sins  to  answer 
for,  even  if  he  deserve  to  live  in  the  honour  and 
esteem  of  men  to  whom  civil  and  religious  liberty 
are  blessings.  Queen  Anne  was  wont  to  call  him 
Bold  Bradbury,  Few  persons,  it  is  said,  had  a 
greater   share  in    promoting    the  succession   of   the 


''PUNCH  IN  THE  PULPITS  267 


house  of  Hanover.  It  is  also  said,  that  upon  Queen 
Anne's  death,  he  preached  from  the  text,  "  Go,  see 
now  this  cursed  woman,  and  bury  her,  for  she  is  a 
king's  daughter;"  it  was  he  who  was  wont  to  express 
his  disHke  of  Dr.  Watts's  psalms  by  saying,  "  Let  us 
have  none  of  Dr.  Watts's  whimsy  In  fact,  he  was 
the  South  of  the  Nonconformists,  but  he  had  incom- 
parably more  decency  than  that  disagreeable  time- 
server. 

William  Dawson  may,  perhaps,  seem  to  be  nearer 
to  the  idea  of  the  author  of  a  lampoon  called 
"  Punch  in  the  Pulpit,"  and  from  which  we  have 
quoted  above  ;  yet  he  was  a  master  there,  and  only 
disgraceful  ignorance  can  so  insult  his  memory. 
Dawson  seldom  indulged  in  drollery  for  its  own 
sake  ;  he  had  immense  power  over  vast  audiences. 
We  have  many  powerful  preachers  living  now,  but 
in  the  power  of  self-abandonment  we  have  no  speaker 
like  Dawson.  He  spoke  to  the  people  in  parables  ; 
he  sometimes  spoke  in  very  bold,  to  our  thought, 
even  in  coarse  imagery  and  language  ;  but  the  world 
needs  preachers  such  as  he  was.  And  the  writer 
we  have  quoted  finds  "Punch  in  the  pulpit"  during 
the  singing  of  many  hymns.  Those  exquisitely 
beautiful  hymns,  "Alas  !  and  did  my  Saviour  bleed," 
and  that  most  tender  one,  "The  waves  of  trouble, 
how  they  rise,"  awaken  only  his  disgust.  This  is 
called  "queer  hymnology."  We  live  indeed  in 
hypercritical  times,  when  such  sweet  and  sacred 
notes  of  the  Church  can  be  profaned  by  such  a 
vulgar  designation. 

There   is   no   doubt   plenty  of  cause  for  a  smart 
satire  upon  many  of  the  ways  and  words  of  the  men 


268      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

of  the  pulpit.  It  is  a  difficult  thing  to  determine — 
nothing  can  determine  it  but  the  cultivated  and 
sanctified  sense  of  the  preacher — the  extent  to  which 
humour  may  be  permitted  in  the  pulpit.  Some  will 
protest  against  its  use  altogether,  but  the  boughs  of 
the  old  elm  tree  which  once  shed  its  autumn  leaves 
in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  and  which  has  not  been 
long  removed,  while  preserving  to  the  eye  of  memory 
the  cross  over  which  it  waved,  where  stood  the  pulpit, 
once  the  most  celebrated  in  all  England,  the  Pulpit 
of  St.  Paul's  Cross,  defend  the  use  of  it.  To  what 
that  pulpit  was  we  have  no  resemblance  now ;  for, 
indeed,  times  have  altered,  and  the  pulpit  work  is 
different ;  that  pulpit  was  T/te  Times  newspaper  of 
its  day  ;  it  was  far  more,  it  was  the  platform,  it 
was  the  book,  the  focal  lens,  the  ventilator  of 
public  opinion ;  and  not  only  true  things,  but 
humorous  things,  did  that  useful  sounding-board 
echo  over  the  multitudes.  There  Colet,  the  learned 
Dean,  there  Hooker,  there  the  grave  and  dignified 
Ridley  ;  and  there,  too,  the  most  popular  preacher 
of  them  all,  the  anecdotal,  witty,  fable-loving 
and  humorous  Latimer,  preached.  If  we  did  not 
regret  that  there  is  found  so  little  freedom  in 
the  pulpit,  we  should  rejoice  that,  with  the  multi- 
tudes of  preachers,  there  is  so  little  infringement  of 
the  bounds  of  good  taste.  At  the  same  time  it  is 
to  be  remembered  that  there  is  a  pedantic  "  Punch 
in  the  pulpit,"  as  well  as  a  frolicsome  one,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  is  the  more  irre- 
verent. Fine  sermons,  learned  sermons,  metaphysical 
sermons,  are  shocking  things.  A  very  old  writer 
has  said — 


THE  LEARNED   CARPENTER.  269 

"  Some  take  a  text  sublime  and  fraught  with  sense, 
But  quickly  fall  into  impertinence. 
On  trifles  eloquent  with  great  delight- 
They  flourish  out  on  some  strange  mystic  rite ; 
But  to  subdue  the  passions,  or  direct, 
And  all  life's  moral  duties,  they  neglect. 
Most  preachers  err,  except  the  wiser  few. 
Thinking  established  doctrines,  therefore,  true. 
Others,  too  fond  of  novelty  and  schemes, 
Amuse  the  world  with  airy,  idle  dreams. 
Thus  too  much  faith  or  too  presuming  wit 
Are  rocks  where  bigots  or  freethinkers  split 
'Tis  not  enough  that  what  you  say  is  true: 
To  make  us  feel  it,  yott  must  feel  it  too, 
Show  yourself  warm,  and  that  will  warmth  impart 
To  every  hearer's  sympathising  heart." 

The  style  of  some  preachers  is  quite  as  kidicrous 
as  that  ridiculed  by  Pluche  in  his  "  History  of  the 
Heavens  "  : — 

"  A  carpenter  who  understood  his  trade,  and  was  in 
tolerable  circumstances,  had  given  his  son  a  good  education, 
that  is,  had  made  him  pass  through  a  course  of  liberal 
studies  and  philosophy.  We  know  no  other  method.  The 
father  dying  just  as  the  son  had  gone  through  his  pubHc 
disputations,  and  leaving  some  undertakings  unfinished,  the 
young  man  took  a  liking  to  work,  and  followed  his  father's 
profession.  But  he  bethought  himself  of  recalling  his  art  to 
certain  principles,  and  subjecting  it  to  a  methodical  order. 
He  treated  the  whole  in  his  head  as  he  had  seen  his  masters 
treat  the  art  of  reasoning.  At  length  he  got  together  a 
number  of  journeymen  of  the  trade,  and  promised  to  lead 
them  by  a  new  way  to  the  quintessence  of  carpentry. 

"  Our  new  doctor,  after  a  long  preamble  on  mechanics, 
which  he  promised  to  treat  on  by  genus  and  species,  came  to 
the  first  question,  and  very  seriously  examined  whether  there 
was  a  principle  of  force  in  man.      He  long  discussed  the 


270      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

reasons /w  and  con,  and  at  last  enabled  his  disciples,  know- 
ingly, and  without  any  apprehension  of  mistake,  to  affirm 
that  man  ivas  capable  of  a  certain  degree  of  strength,  and  able 
to  communicate  motion,  for  instance,  to  an  axe,  or  to  a 
stone,  if  not  too  great.  He  was  contented  with  this  modest 
assertion,  being  persuaded,  that,  with  this  small  strength 
multiplied,  he  might,  towards  the  end  of  his  treatise,  come  to 
transporting  the  largest  pieces  of  rough  marble,  and  to  heav- 
ing of  mountains.  He  next  proceeded  to  examine  the  place 
where  this  force  resided ;  and  after  many  disputations  on  the 
brains,  the  glandula  pinealis,  the  spirits,  and  the  muscles, 
he,  out  of  economy,  and  for  brevity's  sake,  determined  that 
the  arm  was  the  chief  agent,  and  the  instrument  of  human 
strength. 

"  ///  a  t]iird paragraph  (for  you  would  have  wondered  how 
well  he  divided  and  put  his  matter  in  order),  the  strength 
residing  in  the  arm  gave  him  occasion  to  examine  all  the 
constituent  pieces  of  the  arm,  and  to  make  an  exact  anatomy 
of  it.  He  made  long  dissertations  on  the  nerves,  muscles, 
fibres,  and  descended  to  the  minutest  filaments.  He  multi- 
plied the  lengths  of  the  muscles  by  their  breadths,  and  the 
product  of  these  by  the  sum  of  the  fibres.  From  one  calcu- 
lation to  another  he  came  to  determine  the  strength  of  each 
degree  of  tension,  and,  by  means  of  these  determinations, 
made  himself  able  to  fix  the  strength  of  percussion.  Thus  he 
weighed  a  cuff,  and  joining  the  strength  of  the  fist  to  the  sum 
of  the  blow  of  a  hammer,  he  showed  you  the  exact  weight 
with  which  this  percussion  was  in  equal  proportion.  Finally, 
to  sum  up  his  matters,  and  for  the  conveniency  of  the  young 
carpenters,  he  reduced  this  whole  into  algebraic  expressions. 
"  The  author's  conclusion  on  the  whole  work  is,  '  that  not 
only  in  point  of  religion,  but  also  in  natural  philosophy,  we 
ought  to  be  contented  with  the  certainty  of  experience,  and  the 
simplicity  of  Revelation.^  "  * 

■*  Pluch6,  "Hist,  of  the  Heavens,"  vol.  ii.,  b.  4. 


ROBERT  ROBINSON.  271 


In  thoughtlessness,  in  sheer  vacant  thoughtlessness, 
some  of  the  effects,  equal  to  the  most  ridiculous 
drollery,  have  their  origin;  like  the  escapade  of 
speech  heard  from  the  lips  of  a  holy  minister  by  a 
friend  of  our  own,  in  describing  the  happiness  of  the 
heavenly  state  :— Oh,  my  friends,  there  Satan  shall 
harass  you  no  longer  ;  there  the  enemy  of  souls  can 
distress  you  no  more,  for  there  you  shall  be  like 
Him  ;  there  you  shall  see  H4m  as  He  is."  It  is  to 
be  hoped  all  his  auditors  were  sufficiently  at  home 
in  Scripture,  to  understand  the  extraordinary  juxta- 
position of  ideas. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  the  great  Robert  Robin- 
son, of  Cambridge,  received  a  visit  from  the  Rev. 
Clement  Carnifex,  who,  at  that  time,  lived  at  "Enon' 
near  to  Salim,  because  there  was  much  water  there.', 
The  following  dialogue  between  these  two  men  will 
afford  a  still  more  striking  illustration  of  these  im- 
pertinent allusions  to  the  devil : — 

Clement  Carnifex.—''  I  am  come  from  a  great  distance  to 
hear  you  preach  to-morrow." 

Robert  Robinson.— ''i:\iQr\,hxo\her,yoVi  shall  preach  for  me." 
C  C.— "O  no,  no;  I  cannot  preach  in  Mr.  Robinson's 

pulpit." 

R,  R, <'  Why  not  ?  my  pulpit  is  a  wooden  one  ;  is  not 

yours  ?" 

C  C. "  Yes,  sir ;  but  I  cannot  preach  to  Mr.  Robinson's 

people." 

R^  ^._««Why  not?  my  people  are  like  other  people — 
some  good,  some  bad — are  not  yours  ?  " 

C.  C— "  Yes,  sir." 

R^  R.—'<^  Well,  then,  I  daresay  the  sermons  last  Sunday 
at  home  would  be  very  suitable.     What  were  they?  " 


272       JVIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

C.  C. — "Why,  in  the  morning  I  preached  from  Esther 
vii.  9 — 'Hang  him  thereon,'" 

H'  E. — "  Very  well,  brother.  You  had  a  good  opportunity 
of  showing  that  the  wicked  is  snared  in  the  work  of  his  own 
hands.     Did  you  take  it  up  in  that  light,  brother?  " 

C.  C. — "  No,  sir  ;  I  considered  Haman  as  the  devil,  who 
is  always  endeavouring  to  injure  the  Lord's  people,  and 
would  be  glad  to  destroy  them." 

R.  R. — "  Very  good,  brother  :  nothing  can  be  more 
suitable.  Here  is  old  Nan  fly,  the  pew-opener  at  our  place  ; 
she  can  never  get  to  meeting  in  time,  for  she  says  that  the 
devil  always  finds  her  something  or  other  to  do.  Then 
there  is  old  Farmer  Jones,  who  lives  about  three  miles  off. 
He  says  that  before  he  has  got  half  way  to  meeting,  the 
devil  tells  him  that  somebody  is  breaking  into  his  barns, 
and  he  is  obliged  to  return.  Now,  brother,  if  you  could 
prove  that  you  have  hanged  the  devil,  nothing  in  the  world 
would  be  more  suitable.  That  will  do  for  the  morning. 
Now,  what  is  the  afternoon  subject,  brother  ?  " 

C.  C. — "  Why,  sir,  in  the  afternoon  I  preached  from 
2  Kings  xviii.  36,  'Answer  him  not.'" 

R.  R. — "Very  well,  brother.  You  have  an  opportunity 
of  showing  not  only  that  the  king's  business  requires  haste, 
but  that  it  is  sometimes  good  policy  not  to  reveal  the 
secrets  of  State  affairs.  Did  you  handle  it  that  way, 
brother  ?  " 

C.  C. — "  No,  sir.  I  endeavoured  to  show  that  the  devil 
would  be  always  harassing  and  distressing  the  dear  people 
of  God  ;  but  the  best  way  was  to  pay  no  regard  to  his 
temptation.     *  Answer  him  not  a  word.'  " 

R.  R. — "  Ha  !  ha  !  brother ;  that  will  never  do.  Now, 
in  the  morning,  you  see,  according  to  your  sermon,  you 
hanged  the  devil ;  that  was  very  fortunate ;  but  in  the 
afternoon  you  brought  him  to  life  again.  At  any  rate  it 
must  be  wrong  for  these  two  subjects  to  follow  each 
other." 


FINE  BUT  FALSE  PREACHERS.  i^i 

But  we  do  not  know  that  any  of  these  strange 
developnnents  disgust  more  than  those  which  result 
in  tame  feebleness  from  the  absence  of  earnestness. 
We  have  the  "laced  coat  of  mere  orthodox  twaddle;" 
we  have  men  who  stand  like  cast-iron  pumps,  and 
exercise  their  preaching  as  a  kind  of  parish-pump 
faculty  ;  we  have  somnolence  sleeping  itself  to  death; 
and  we  have  the  platitudes  uttered,  when  men, 
having  no  voice  in  their  own  conscience,  fail  of  course 
to  reach  the  consciences  of  others. 

We  have  heard  many  sermons  preached  upon  the 
publican  and  Pharisee  ;  but  did  you  ever  hear  of 
that  preached  in  St.  Giles-in-the-Fields  }  "  It  was 
sad,"  said  the  able  and  eloquent  preacher,  "  that  any 
of  our  fellow-creatures  should  so  fall,  as  to  stand  in 
need  of  such  a  degrading  confession  as  the  publican's ; 
but  he  besought  his  hearers  to  be  upon  their  guard, 
lest  by  drawing  too  favourable  a  contrast  between 
such  outcasts  and  themselves,  they  incurred  the 
censure  pronounced  on  that  otherwise  most  amiable 
character,  the  Pharisee."  And  James  Haldane  men- 
tions, in  one  of  his  missionary  tours  in  Scotland,  that 
he  heard  a  minister  solemnly  warn  his  people, — and 
he  was  a  minister  of  the  Scotch  Establishment, — 
against  putting  any  trust,  while  they  continued 
sinners,  in  the  blood  of  Christ.  *'  Repent,"  said  he, 
"  become  righteous,  atone  for  your  sins  by  probity 
and  virtue,  and  then,  if  you  please,  you  may  look  to 
that  blood,  but  not  before."  Widely  different  all 
this  from  the  "  warning  every  man,  and  teaching 
every  man,  that  we  may  present  every  man  perfect 
in  Christ  Jesus." 

We  need    not  read    the  celebrated   "  Sermons   to 

i8 


274      W'^T  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT, 

Asses."  *  We  need  not  go  to  hear  the  Friar 
Gerund,'!'  nor  listen  to  the  preacher  who  took  for  his 
text  "  O,"  and  said  a  thousand  fine  things ;  nor 
to  that  learned  and  judicious  monk,  who,  preach- 
ing upon  the  servant  of  the  High  Priest  warming 
himself,  began,  "  My  brethren,  see  how  the  evan- 
gelist relates,  not  merely  as  an  historian  would — 
'  he  warmed  hiviselfl  but  as  a  philosopher — '  becmise 
he  was  cold! "  The  speech  outruns  the  ideas  of 
some  preachers,  as  in  the  instance,  cited  by  the  Wyck- 
hamist,  of  a  missionary,  who,  describing  the  horrors 
of  the  Caffre  war,  and  its  desolating  effect  on  his 
own  estate,  and  wishing  to  wind  up  with  a  good 
sonorous  cadence,  ended  in  words  which  certainly 
were  remarkable  as  the  experience  of  a  living  man, 
"And  when  I  got  home  to  my  hotise  I  found  my 
childreji  fatherless  and  my  wife  a  ividozu!'  We  need 
not  go,  for  the  purpose  of  marking  the  humours  of 
the  pulpit,  to  that  repertory,  above  all  other  repertoires 
of  pulpit  anecdote,  Robert  Robinson's  edition  of 
"  Claude,"  unless  to  note  how  admirable  are  his  re- 
marks upon  vulgarity  in  the  pulpit ;  and  they  afford 
a  reason  for  many  of  Robinson's  own  frequent  lapses. 

'■^Nothing  is  more  necessary  than  self-denial.  Beside  all 
that  self-denial,  which  belongs  to  ministers  in  common  with 
their  fellow-Christians,  there  are  exercises  of  it  peculiar  to 
divines,  and  essential  to  the  discharge  of  the  pastoral  office. 
Visiting  and  conversing  with  the  poor,  and  allowing  them  to 

*  "  Sermons  to  Asses,  to  Doctors  of  Divinity,  to  Lords 
Spiritual,  and  to  Ministers  of  State."  By  the  Rev.  James 
Murray,   1819. 

t  "  The  History  of  the  Famous  Preacher,  Friar  Gerund  de 
Companzas,  otherwise  Gerund  Zotes,"  Translated  from  the 
Spanish.     In  2  vols.  1772. 


THE  ART  OF  SELF-DENIAL.  275 

come  for  spiritual  advice,  are  articles  of  this  kind.  Can  it 
be  imagined,  that  a  man  of  learning  is  gratified  by  illiterate 
conversation  ? — That  a  polite,  well-bred  man  relishes  the 
vulgar,  awkward  rudeness  of  clowns  ?  That  men,  who  know 
the  worth  of  time,  and  who  love  study  as  they  love  life,  can 
be  pleased  with  interruption  and  nonsense,  and  long-winded 
tales  of  complaint,  which  begin,  perhaps,  in  an  ale-house 
fray,  and  end  in  a  case  of  conscience?  Can  they,  whose 
company  is  courted  by  accomplished  men,  who  would  pour 
into  their  bosoms  of  wise  and  pious  CQnv&c%2X\Qn  good  measure, 
pressed  down,  and  shaken  together,  and  running  over — can 
these,  I  ask,  of  choice  spend  half  a  day  in  searching  for  one 
grain  of  wheat  in  a  bushel  of  chaff?  Yet  he  who  cannot 
submit  to  these  things,  however  qualified  for  a  nobleman's 
domestic  chaplain,  or  for  a  dignitary  in  a  rich  church,  can 
never  make  the  less  splendid  but  more  useful  minister  of  a 
parish,  or  pastor  of  a  flock.  A  poet  may  give  himself  airs, 
toss  his  haughty  head,  take  snuff,  and  chant — Odi  profanum 
vulgus  ;  but  the  minister  of  the  meek  and  merciful  Jesus  must 
not  do  so.  He  must  try  to  take  the  ton  of  his  poor  people, 
if  he  would  do  them  real  spiritual  good.  It  will  be  his  glory 
sometimes  to  be  rude  in  speech,  to  conceal  his  abilities,  to 
adapt  himself  to  their  weaknesses,  to  prefer  Bunyan  before 
Beza,  Dodd's  sayings  and  Wright's  poems  before  the 
casuistry  of  Hoadley  and  the  poetry  of  Milton  or  Young. 

Thus,  also,  some  preachers  are  fond  of  discoursing 
on  the  Book  of  Leviticus,  a  book  needing  a  very  fine 
spiritual  hand  and  insight,  and  capable  of  yielding 
glorious  teaching  ;  yet  the  effect  is  usually  bad, 
because  there  is  no  eye  for  the  Divine  meaning. 
Thus  a  young  clergyman  hearing  a  minister  preach- 
ing on  the  types,  and  expounding  Leviticus  iii.  3 — 
"  And  he  shall  offer  the  fat  that  covereth  the  inwards, 
and  all  the  fat  that  is  upon  the  inwards,  and   the 


276      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

two  kidneys,  and  the  fat  that  is  on  them,  which  is 
by  the  flanks,  and  the  caul  above  the  liver,  with 
the  kidneys,  it  he  shall  take  away " — it  is  said, 
turned  sick  at  the  suggestive  pictures.  It  is  a 
singular  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind, 
the  irreverence  of  reverent  men.  The  shelves  of* 
our  own  library  give  to  us  John  Stoughton's  (not 
our  excellent  friend  the  historian,  but  the  old  1640 
man)  "  Baruch's  Sore  Gently  Opened,  and  the  Salve 
Skilfully  Applied."  We  have  the  "  Church's  Bowel 
Complaint,"  "  The  Snuffers  of  Divine  Love."  Then 
are  there  not  the  "  Spiritual  Mustard  Pot  to  Make 
the  Soul  Sneeze  with  Devotion,"  "  A  Pack  of  Cards  to 
Win  Christ,"  etc.,  etc.  ?  Looking  back  upon  these 
things,  we  almost  feel  that  our  age  has  advanced  in 
reverence  as  well  as  in  culture. 

Yet  we  wish  we  had  more  freedom  in  the  pulpit. 
There  would  be  more  useful  results  if  ministers  felt 
more,  and  spoke  more  openly  and  heartily  ;  if  every 
man  had  more  his  own  style.  If,  in  fact,  the  pulpit 
could  be  less  than  it  is,  it  would  be  more  than  it  is  ; 
it  overrides  far  too  intolerantly  other  ministerial 
duties.  We  ourselves  speak  much  of  it,  and  yet  we 
long  to  hear  less  of  it.  And  then  it  will  do  its 
work  better,  when  its  words  shall  be  a  flow  of  kindly, 
friendly,  solemn,  cheerful,  thoughtful  talk  :  a  conver- 
sation with  people,  rather  than  the  sweep  of  a  stately 
flight  above  them,  talking  to  them — that  is  in  sym- 
pathy— rather  than  talking  at  them.  Certainly,  in 
the  work  of  the  pulpit,  the  true  preacher  makes  his 
own  work,  and  uses,  by  an  instinct  deeper  than  his 
own  knowledge,  the  kind  of  method  most  suited  to 
his  nature.     Toplady  says,  "  The  painter  chooses  the 


THE  PREACHING  THAT  IS   WANTED.      2-j-j 

materials  on  which  he  paints — on  wood,  on  glass, 
on  metals,  on  ivory,  on  canvas.  Some  natural 
endowments  are  not  high — there  the  painting  is 
on  wood  ;  others  on  marble,  quick  sensibility,  and 
poignant  feeling  ;  some  on  glass,  very  beautiful,  but 
especially  dangerous,  since  by  the  first  stone  of  pene- 
tration they  are  fractured  and  broken,  and  fall  from 
their  first  love.  The  earliest  ancients  painted  only 
in  water,  like  hypocrites :  but  God  paints  in  oil, 
accompanying  Himself  the  word  by  unction  and  by 
power." 

And  when  attempts  are  made  either  to  sneer 
down  the  pulpit  or  to  hold  it  up  to  ridicule,  the 
response  ought  to  be,  that  it  is  really  by  far  the 
most  important  means  for  the  education  of  thought 
and  emotion  in  the  hands  of  men.  It  cannot  be 
cared  for  too  much,  or  guarded  too  sedulously.  It 
needs  indeed  to  be  taken  away  from  the  tongue  of 
bigotry  and  formalism,  it  needs  to  be  made  less  a 
mere  amusement  and  luxury,  more  of  tenderness, 
experience,  teaching — more  of  humanity  in  it ;  and 
then  it  will  be  hailed  as  one  of  the  most  delightful 
means  of  cheering  the  toil  of  the  working  man  with 
the  love  of  Jesus,  the  story  of  the  Cross,  and  the 
good  news  from  the  far  country,  inwrought  with 
lessons  and  pictures  of  life,  homely,  powerful,  and 
practical,  becoming  at  once  light  to  the  eye  and  a 
power  to  the  conscience. 

Southey  entertains  us  with  a  story  of  a  certain 
Quaker  who  took  a  manuscript  to  Franklin  to  print 
and  publish.  Franklin  looked  over  it,  and  said  to 
the  author  that  it  was  somewhat  deficient  in  arrange- 
ment.    "  It's   no  matter,"    said    the    author,    "  print 


278      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

any  part  thou  pleasest  first."  We  may  almost  fear 
iest  the  fragmentary  words  of  this  chapter  may  lay 
us  open  to  a  similar  laugh.  The  fault  is,  perhaps, 
that  all  persons  live  too  exclusively  on  the  life  of 
the  book,  or  of  the  speaker.  The  man  who  lives 
on  the  orator  alone  may  have  his  mental  and  moral 
life  destroyed  by  a  plethora  or  a  spasm,  if  we  may 
not  rather  call  it  a  spontaneous  combustion.  The 
man,  on  the  contrary,  who  lives  the  life  of  the  mere 
bookman  may  die  of  indigestion.  There  is  a  danger 
of  being  mere  bookmen,  or  else  mere  hangers-on  at 
public  meetings,  and  frothy  lecturings.  We  educate 
our  thoughts  by  the  book,  we  enlarge  our  information 
by  the  book,  we  extend  the  territory  of  our  imagina- 
tion by  the  book  ;  but  we  educate  our  affections  by 
speech,  we  intensify  our  impulses  by  speech,  we 
acquire  the  grace  of  manner  and  the  felicity  of 
diction  by  speech,  not  merely  by  speaking,  but  by 
hearing.  The  book  is  for  the  head  ;  from  the  book 
we  must  expect  to  obtain  ideas  ;  from  the  book  we 
must  gain  mental  forms  ;  the  book  will  surround  the 
spirit  with  all  those  graceful  fictions,  those  ineffable 
charms  of  proverb  and  parable,  which  give  to  the 
soul  the  evergreen  and  the  flower,  as  well  as  the 
hardy  fruit.  Speech  will  give  fire  to  us,  it  will  give 
h'ght  to  us,  such  light  as  shines  through  a  vault 
when  the  heavens  are  alive  with  flame.  The  book- 
man becomes  a  mere  cold  critic,  watchful  for  the 
slips  of  speech  ;  the  mere  speaker  or  auditor  be- 
comes careless,  save  of  all  that  ministers  to  stirring 
sensation,  by  drollery  or  humour,  rhetoric  or  fancy  ; 
he  is  careless  how  it  comes. 

But  we  must  kindle  the  torch  if  we  intend  to  track 


RIDICULE  MA  Y  BE  EFFECTIVE.  279 

our  way  through  the  "  palpable  obscure."  At  present 
our  faith  is  not  great,  as  a  whole,  either  in  the 
book  or  in  speech.  And  our  age  is  too  critical.  In 
these  times  we  seem  to  have  the  obstinacy  of  the 
dogmatist  without  his  weapon  of  certainty.  That 
our  nature  may  be  perfected,  we  must  permit  the 
river  of  speech  to  flow  through  the  ear  into  the 
soul,  as  well  as  the  river  of  thought  to  flow  through 
the  eye  into  the  soul.  By  our  homage  to  each  we 
shall  find  our  nature  built  up  and  sustained. 

But  let  us  remember  that  there  are  occasions 
on  which  laughter  is  almost  solely,  if  not  solely,  the 
only  weapon  we  can  employ ;  we  can  far  more 
readily  laugh  some  bad  things  out  of  countenance 
than  we  can  argue  them  out  of  existence  ;  there  is 
even  a  kind  of  drollery  which  has  been  employed 
very  efficiently  on  subjects  which  can  be  considered 
scarcely  less  than  sacred.  Shall  we  greatly  offend 
some  of  our  readers,  who,  like  ourselves,  prize  all 
the  lessons  which  modern  science  and  culture 
present  to  us,  when  we  say  that  some  of  the 
teachings  of  modern  scientists  seem  ridiculous  and 
trifling,  impertinent  and  sinful  ?  May  we  relate  an 
old  anecdote  }  It  will  bear  repeating,  even  if  our 
readers  already  know  it,  as  an  illustration  of  the  way 
in  which  drollery  does  a  work  sometimes  more 
efficient  than  logic.  A  city  missionary  was 
preaching  in  London — he  was  pressing  home  the 
abiding  identity  and  responsibility  of  the  soul ;  an 
infidel,  well-known  in  the  neighbourhood,  inter- 
rupted him ;  after  the  usual  flippant  manner  of 
such  persons,  he  argued  that  it  was  impossible  a 
man  could    have  any  responsibilities.     "  Why, "  he 


28o      WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

said,  "  it  is  a  well-known  fact  that  a  man  is  a  bundle 
of  atoms,  and  these  are  constantly  changing,  the 
man  is  constantly  throwing  them  off ;  how  can  a 
man  be  responsible  for  deeds  done  by  another  man 
who  is  gone,  and  is  now  he  knows  not  where ; 
but  who  forms  no  part  now  of  his  nature?"  The 
missionary  was  one  of  these  masters  of  drollery. 
He  said,  "  I  cannot  talk  with  that  man  ;  it  is  a 
fact  that  this  person,  whom  you  know  as  a  married 
man,  is  now  living  with  a  woman  who  is  not  his 
wife.  Such  is  the  morality  of  infidelity ! "  His 
opponent  burst  into  a  rage.  "  This  is  the  way," 
said  he,  "  with  all  these  Christians.  They  cannot 
foil  us  in  augument,  and  so  they  descend  to  personal 
abuse.  I  am  a  married  man.  I  live  with  my  wife, 
and  I  love  her,  although  I  was  married  to  her 
twenty  years  since  ;  and  I  defy  any  one  to  say  a 
word  against  my  character  in  that  particular."  The 
missionary  maintained  his  ground.  "  There  could 
be  no  doubt,"  he  said,  "  the  man  was  living  with  a 
woman  who  was  not  his  wife.  It  was  true  he  had 
married  a  woman  twenty  years  since ;  but  that 
woman  was  no  longer  in  existence.  She  was 
composed  of  atoms  which  had  all  resolved  them- 
selves into  other  substances ;  that  woman  was  a 
woman  no  longer."  And  he,  therefore,  called  on  the 
infidel  either  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  really 
living  with  a  woman  who  was  not  his  wife,  or  to  ac- 
knowledge that,  although  matter  dissolved,  something 
beyond  matter  remained.  The  illustration  was 
droll,  but  it  was  unanswerable  ;  and  the  infidel  did 
not  make  much  by  that  interruption. 

We   can    never  forget   our  impressions  when  we 


BINNEY  AND  ROBERTSON.  281 

heard  the  first  illustrations  of  sustained  humour  in 
the  pulpit.  We  had  been  accustomed  from  infancy 
to  the  gravity  of  the  old  hard-shelled  Puritanism, 
and  we  were  young  when  we  first  heard  Thomas 
Binney  ;  it  was  a  revelation  to  us  to  find  a  fine  play 
of  refined  cheerfulness  glowing  over  the  face,  and 
gleaming  in  a  happy  colloquial  style  along  his 
words.  He  broke  up  the  stilted  style  of  pulpit 
eloquence  in  England.  Before  Robertson  had 
ascended  the  pulpit  we  believe  we  heard  Binney 
say  everything  that  has  given  eminence  to  the 
sermons  of  the  Brighton  preacher,  but  conjoined 
in  him  with  a  sustained  majesty  of  elevated 
language  and  thought,  to  which  Robertson  seldom 
attained.  He  was  a  master  of  the  eloquence 
of  smiles  and  tears,  and  he  wielded  satire  with 
that  delicacy  and  refinement  of  shaft  which  is 
always  its  most  fatal  power.  Forty  years  since, 
upon  the  first  appearance  of  Strauss's  "  Life  of  Christ," 
in  a  sermon  of  marvellous  power,  he  replied  to 
the  mythical  theory  in  a  style  of  satire  which 
seems  to  us  most  overwhelming  and  irresistible. 
We  were  never  able,  we  are  still  unable  to  feel  any 
respect  for  the  work  of  Strauss  ;  it  insults  our 
judgment.  That  precious  theory  is  only  worthy  of 
satire,  it  is  not  worth  an  argument,  which  represents 
Christ,  our  Saviour,  only  as  a  spectre,  a  gliding 
image  along  the  arcades  of  the  temple,  less  real 
than  the  phantoms  of  a  winter's  eve,  and  to  be  classed 
only  with  the  stories  of  a  village  beldame,  who 
terrifies  her  youthful  audience  with  scenes  from  the 
graveyard.  The  history  of  Christ  and  Christianity 
a    coruscation    of  fancy }      To    argue   with  a  case 


282       WIT  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

like  this  would  be  to  insult  our  own  common  sense  ; 
of  course,  it  is  unanswerable,  except  by  satire,  and 
in  this  fashion  Thomas  Binney  replied  to  it.  But, 
perhaps,  in  future  pages  we  may  reprint  this,  which 
we  will  venture  to  call  one  of  the  most  splendid 
pieces  of  cumulative  argument  heightening  into 
eloquence,  and  bound  together,  all  along,  by  a 
subtle,  delicate,  and  reserved  muscle  of  satire,  in 
the  whole  range  of  modern  theology  and  preaching. 

Archbishop  Whately  took  another  way  of  satire, 
in  replying  to  the  same  book,  in  his  "  Historic  Doubts 
Relative  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  demonstrating,  on 
precisely  the  same  principles,  that  it  was  doubtful 
if  Napoleon  ever  existed,  and  that  it  was  probable 
that  the  battle  of  Waterloo  was  never  fought  at 
all  !  and  both  are  noble  illustrations  of  the  work 
done  by  the  pulpit  in  the  ad  Jwminem  argument 
on  the  lips  of  satire. 

Satire  has  a  keen  detective  eye,  and  the  sermons 
of  Binney,  as  we  remember  them  as  a  youth,  were 
full  of  these  bright  but  cheerful  detective  strokes. 
Thus  we  heard  him  once  on  the  early  emergence  of 
the  evolution  theory,  upon  the  appearance  of  the 
"Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History  of  Creation,"  a  work 
which  anticipated  the  prelections  of  Mr.  Darwin. 
He  said,  we  might  conceive  of  the  man  built  up 
by  evolution  ;  but  now,  when  the  woman  was  built 
up  by  the  same  process,  and  that  man  is  found 
exactly  to  answer  to  that  woman,  what  a  wonderful 
principle  of  evolution  is  there,  and  yet,  neither 
"  male  nor  female  created  he  them  "  !  Two  happy 
evolutions  going  on  together  at  the  same  time  and 
most  marvellously  meeting. 


WJIA  T  IS  HUMO  UR?  283 

So  then,  on  the  whole,  humour  chastened,  edu- 
cated, and  refined,  as  it  has  found,  so  it  may  still 
find  a  place  in  pulpit  exercises.  Humour  has  the 
touches  that  melt,  humour  animates  and  cheers, 
humour  is  the  life  of  pictures ;  satire  is  a  fine 
conscience,  holding  up  to  scorn  the  things  which 
have  no  conscience  before  the  awakened  consciences 
of  others.  A  droll  infidel,  we  confess,  seems  to 
us  like  a  skeleton  with  a  grinning  skull,  a  death's 
head  introduced,  and  warranted  to  dance  like 
harlequin,  and  gibber  like  a  clown. 

But  humour  does  not  necessarily  imply  the 
funny  ;  no,  it  is  an  easy,  harmonious  sympathy  ; 
there  is  a  style  of  talk  which  stands  aloof,  which 
aims  to  rise,  perhap's  to  soar  out  of  sight,  and  we 
are  far  from  deprecating  it  ;  there  is  an  eloquence 
which  soars  and  sings,  darkening  and  unseen,  even 
as  we  hear  the  lark  and  the  nightingale,  although 
we  cannot  see  the  singer;  but  humour  individualizes, 
and  brings  down,  and  brings  home.  Why,  we  may 
see  how  it  is  often  in  a  picture.  We  look  at  that 
landscape.  It  is  some  scene  of  mountain,  or  of 
lake,  upon  which  the  artist  has  expended  all  his 
powers  of  conception  or  description  !  But  in  one 
corner  there  is  a  little  colour  contrasting  with,  but 
giving  life  to  the  whole,  an  old  woman,  it  may  be, 
or  a  girl  in  a  red  cloak  or  frock  ;  or  it  is  some 
seaside  scene  of  wild  crags  and  vast  rolling  billows  ; 
that  painting  cost  the  artist  all  his  powers ;  but, 
cunningly,  with  a  mere  touch  of  his  pencil,  he  has 
introduced  life  into  his  picture  ;  he  has  put  a 
solitary  sea  bird,  on  the  wing  in  the  heaven,  or 
sweeping  among  the  dark  crags,  into  it ;  the   little 


284      TVir  AND  HUMOUR  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

human  feature  in  the  one,  or  that  motion  of  life 
in  the  other,  has  given  or  gives  effect  to  the  whole, 
for  we  cannot  do  without  life.  Usually  it  may  be 
fairly  inferred  that,  when  an  image  does  not  impress, 
either  in  a  picture  or  a  sermon,  the  artist,  or  the 
speaker  himself,  has  not  really  seen  it,  although 
he  has  introduced  it,  and,  as  a  general  principle, 
it  is  so  with  language,  and  language  is  the  tool  with 
which  preachers  have  to  work  ;  when  language 
is  the  result  of  real  feeling  and  perception,  it 
conveys  an  adequate  impression,  always,  it  must  be 
remembered,  to  auditors  capable  of  receiving.  The 
solitary  figure  by  the  side  of  the  lake,  or  the  bird 
on  the  wing  over  the  dark  sea  or  the  tall  dark 
limestone  crag,  suggests  to  us  the  true  use  of  humour 
in  its  individualizing  power  in  the  pulpit. 


CHAPTER    IX. 
FATHER  TAYLOR,   OF  BOSTON. 

FATHER  TAYLOR  died  in  the  year  1871  ;  he 
was  born   in  1793  ;  our  readers  see,  therefore, 
to  how  great  an  age  he  attained  ;  but  the  leaf  was 
withering  on  the  bough  ten  years  before  it  fell.      He 
was  born  in  Richmond,  U.S.,  but  at  seventeen  made 
his  first  acquaintance  with  Boston  ;  he  was  engaged 
on  the  sea,  and  for  some  time  he  continued  in  this 
occupation.       He    led  a   chequered   and    varied    life 
for  some  years,  with  which  years  we  have  nothing 
to  do  in  this  brief  chapter.     He  had  obtained  some 
education;  and  about  the  year   18 19  we  find  him 
preaching    to  the    rough  sailors  at   Marblehead,   in 
connection  with  the  Methodist  Society  of  the  United 
States;  but  in  1828  the  man  and  his  mission  met 
in  Boston,  and  there  he  continued  to  the  close  of  his 
useful  and  splendid  career.     The  little  chapel  over 
which   he  first  became  pastor  was   soon  superseded 
by  a    large  and  superior    structure ;    and,  although 
Father  Taylor  insisted  always  on  reserving  his  best 
sittings  for    the  rough  sailors,  "his  lambs,"    as    he 
called   them,  the   wealth    and    culture    of   the    city 
poured  into  the  galleries  to  hear   the   rough  child 
of  genius,  who   was,  however,  the    city's    favourite. 
He   was    beloved    of   the    choicest    society,   in    the 


286  FATHER  TAYLOR,   OF  BOSTON. 


choicest  town  of  America  ;  and  through  his  future 
years  he  had  an  entrance  to  circles  and  societies 
which  were  barred  to  many,  whose  names  seem 
greater  in  the  literature  of  the  Church  or  of  the  world. 

We  suppose  it  possible  that  he  was  the  greatest 
natural  orator,  in  our  language,  of  our  time.  Emerson 
said  that  Daniel  Webster  and  Father  Taylor  were 
the  two  greatest  poets  in  the  United  States  ;  if  there 
be  any  truth  in  this,  then  Father  Taylor  was  the 
first,  for  surely  the  compactness  of  his  imagination, 
and  the  swift  glances  of  his  intuition  and  fancy,  leave 
Webster  far  behind  in  the  poet's  gifts,  however 
superior  he  might  be  in  the  sustained  march  of 
legislative,  judicial,  and  forensic  eloquence. 

He  was  an  immense  creature.  The  largeness  of 
his  love,  the  overwhelming  torrent  of  his  affections, 
constitute  his  chief  characteristic.  Behind  a  hard 
and  weather-beaten  exterior,  there  was  a  soul  which 
could  dart  out  in  indignation  and  fire,  or  frolic  and 
play  about  like  the  gentlest  and  most  innocent  of 
all  created  things.  He  fits  into  no  order  of  ministers  ; 
certainly  he  appears  to  have  been  nothing  like  any 
preacher  of  our  times  whom  we  have  heard,  or  of 
whom  we  have  read  ;  he  was  like  himself  He 
appears  to  have  been  the  one  preacher  of  our  times 
whose  sermons  would  not  print;  we  take  this  to  be  the 
most  incontestable  mark  of  the  most  eminent  orator. 
The  nearer  sermons  are  to  the  possibility  of  being 
rendered  through  the  medium  of  the  press,  the 
further  they  are  from  that  indescribable  but  all- 
captivating  and  enchanting  charm  which  defies  trans- 
lation to  paper.  Even  more  than  Patrick  Henry, 
it  is  said  that    Father    Taylor  was    a   "  forest-born 


ONE  OF  NATURE'S  ORATORS.  287 

Demosthenes  ; "  he  was  full  of  fiery  words  and 
winged  inspirations.  We  can  feel,  with  the  aid  of 
Charles  Dickens's  description,  how  fine,  forcible,  and 
effective  was  the  sermon  he  heard  ;  but  it  needs  the 
description  of  the  manner  of  the  orator  to  find 
anything  effective  in  it.  Have  we  not  often  said 
that  it  is  the  soul  which  makes  the  true  speaker  .'* 
and  have  we  not  often  said  that  we  believe  reporting 
sermons  and  printing  sermons  have  been  calamitous 
and  ruinous  to  fearless,  fervid,  and  effective  speaking. 
The  orator  shivers  before  the  frigidity  of  preparation. 
From  all  this  Father  Taylor  was  free  ;  for  himself, 
it  is  said,  he  never  wrote  a  sermon,  not  a  skeleton, 
hardly  even  a  text  ;  he  used  to  say  his  hand  would 
swell  if  he  kept  it  long  on  the  paper.  If  he  found  a 
text,  the  probability  was  that  he  instantly  started  off, 
across  the  Common,  or  up  and  down  among  the 
wharves  ;  there,  and  in  this  way,  he  wrought  out  his 
argument,  and  gathered  up  his  illustrations,  and 
sometimes  might  be  heard  muttering  to  himself  as  he 
went  along  upon  his  way.  Hence  his  sermons  were 
by  no  means  very  orderly ;  as  his  editor  says, 
his  text  read,  he  was  off  in  a  twinkling.  "  Like 
Peter  Bell,  he  stepped  into  his  balloon  and  was  up 
and  away  ;  the  text  seemed  to  suggest  something, 
and  that,  something  else,  and  then,  something  else  ; 
and  so  he  was  upon  a  sea  of  fancies,  '  a  sea  of  glass 
mingled  with  fire,'  crystal  thoughts  and  burning 
passions,  the  audience  responding  in  tears  and 
laughter  ;  hits  at  current  follies,  blows  at  orthodoxy 
and  heterodoxy,  the  passionate  entreaty,  magnificent 
description,  every  sail  spread,  every  inch  of  steam 
on,  he  ploughs  through  the  sea,  dashing  the   spray 


288  FATHER  TAYLOR,    OF  BOSTON. 

over  you,  and  comes  at  last  careering  into  port  gently 
and  sweetly  as  a  June  sunset," 

Of  course,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  acting  in  his 
sermons,  they  were  not  spoken  entirely,  they  were 
pantomimic  ;  and  all  that  we  have  said  might  be 
the  property  and  the  appropriate  description  of  a 
preacher  who  had  no  claim  to  any  special  commen- 
dation. It  is  not  the  absence  of  preparation,  the 
absence  of  book  knowledge,  and  the  mere  audacious 
talk  which  can  furnish  forth  the  claim  to  regard. 
Father  Taylor,  eminently  holy,  a  most  prayerful, 
faithful  man,  was  a  man  of  extraordinary  genius  ; 
in  his  soul  he  was  a  poet,  in  the  pulpit  he  appears 
to  have  been  very  much  of  the  highest  order  of 
dramatist.  Beautiful  and  concise  expressions  fell 
from  him  apparently  most  naturally ;  but  his  humour 
was  certainly  equal  to  all,  nor  was  he  ever  sparing 
of  it,  he  could  not  help  it,  but,  even  in  prayer,  he 
often  said  things  which  must  provoke  the  very 
serious  objections  of  those  eminent  divines,  Dr. 
Dryasdust  and  Dr.  Grimspeech.  Praying  for  a 
society  which  had  met  with  considerable  opposition, 
at  a  time  when  the  opposition  was  swelling  high,  he 
said,  "  Bless  this  glorious  order,  bless  its  friends,  yes, 
bless  its  enemies,  and  make  their  hearts  as  soft  as 
their  heads."  And  very  strange  was  his  prayer 
when  once  an  Evangelical  clergyman  had  visited  his 
church  from  curiosity,  but  declined  to  take  a  seat 
in  the  pulpit  because  it  had  once  been  occupied  by 
the  Rev.  Henry  Ware,  an  eminent  Unitarian  minister; 
so,  then  and  there,  Taylor  fell  on  his  knees,  and 
burst  into  the  following  brief  prayer,  "O  Lord,  there 
are  two    things  we  want  to    be  delivered  from    ia 


SCENES  IN  HIS  CHURCH.  289 


Boston— one  is  bad  rum,  and  the  other  is  religious 
bigotry  ;  which  is  worst,  Thou  knowest  and  I  don't. 
Amen  ! "      A  Mr.  Snow,  at  one  of  the  prayer-meet- 
ings, not  being  very  warm  in  his  talk,  he  must  have 
been  astonished   to  hear    Father  Taylor  groan   out, 
"O   Lord,  melt  that    Snow!"      Indeed,  his  ejacula- 
tions at  his  prayer-meetings,  and  his  whole  behaviour, 
were  quite  as  remarkable  as  his  achievements  in  the 
pulpit    were    successful  ;    they  were    sometimes    far 
from  flattering  to  some  of  the  persons  who  "  engaged." 
Those   audiences  were  largely  composed  of  sailors. 
On  one   occasion    a  wealthy  gentleman   came  to  a 
very  warm  meeting  and   made  a  speech,  telling  the 
sailors  how  much  had  been  done  for  them,  and  how 
grateful   they  ought  to  be  to  the  merchants  for  all 
their  goodness  ;  as  he  sat  down,  feeling,  very  likely, 
that  Father  Taylor's  Church  would   now  roll  on  for 
twelve     months    upon    this    condescension,    he    was 
surprised  to  hear  the  Father  exclaim,  "  Now,  is  there 
any  other  old    sinner  from    up  town  would   like   to 
say  a  word   before  we    go  on  with   the  meeting?" 
He  could  discern  between  sincerity  and  insincerity  ; 
and  once,  when   a  character    rather  remarkable  for 
intemperance  was  groaning  at  the  end  of  the  room 
in   a  prayer-meeting,  the  Father    detected  the  half 
hypocrisy,  perhaps  half  sincerity,  of  the  noise,  and 
cried  out,  "Come   up  here,  and  we'll  teach  you  to 
groan  from  the  other  side  of  your  mouth."     Curious 
scenes  there  must  have  been  in  his  church  sometimes. 
A  good   brother   from    the    pulpit,   in    prayer,    was 
making  some  nice   distinctions   between   the  higher 
and   the   lower   life   of  grace   in  the  soul  :  he    was 
rather   astonished   to  hear  Father  Taylor,  who  was 

19 


290  FATHER  TAYLOR^   OF  BOSTON. 

by  his  side,  exclaim,  "  Lord,  save  us  from  splitting 
hairs  !  "  "  I'm  not  splitting  hairs,"  said  the  man, 
doing  battle  on  his  knees.  "  Then  ask  the  Lord  for 
what  you  want,  brother,"  was  the  prompt  rejoinder. 
This  seems  very  irreverent  to  our  notions  ;  but  we 
are  not  describing  a  by  any  means  ordinary  man. 
He  prayed  for  President  Lincoln,  "  Lord,  guide  our 
dear  President,  our  Abraham,  the  friend  of  God  like 
the  old  Abraham  ;  save  him  from  those  wriggling, 
piercing,  political,  slimy,  boring  keel-worms,  don't 
let  them  go  through  the  sheathing  of  his  integrity." 
He  was  not  always  in  the  mood  for  praying  ;  once 
he  was  asked  to  pray,  and  he  retorted,  "  Pray  for 
what .''  If  there's  anything  you  want,  I'll  pray  for 
it;  but  it's  no  use  praying  unless  you  have  something 
to  pray  for."  A  visitor  came  down  to  the  meeting 
with  a  number  of  what  seemed  to  him  appropriate 
anecdotes,  but  which  had  appeared  in  all  the  religious 
newspapers  in  the  country  ;  he  was  startled  to  hear 
Father  Taylor  exclaim,  "  O  Lord,  deliver  us  from 
stale  bread  ! " 

The  humour  of  Father  Taylor  was  of  that  order 
that  easily  touches  or  rises  into  the  finest  poetry. 
When  he  was  building  his  new  chapel,  and  preach- 
ing a  collection  sermon  for  it,  in  one  of  the  finest 
and  wealthiest  churches  in  Boston,  glancing  upon 
the  magnificent  pillars,  he  said,  "  I  do  not  want  your 
arches  and  columns  and  draperies  for  my  house, 
only  give  me  the  shavings  that  fall  from  your 
Corinthian  pillars."  Speaking  of  the  fast  age  in 
which  we  live,  and  especially  of  its  fast  men  in 
America,  he  said,  "  If  it  were  possible,  they  would 
be    glad    to   put    spurs    to    lightning,    and    blow  a 


HIS  GROTESQUE  MODES  OF  SPEECH.      291 

trumpet  in  the  ears  of  thunder."  He  disliked 
preaching  on  over-nice  distinctions  in  theology,  and 
spoke  of  those  who  were  in  the  habit  of  doing  so  as 
"  having  only  the  stem-end  of  a  cucumber,  too  bitter 
for  sensible  people  to  eat,  and  only  fit  to  be  thrown 
away."  He  was  very  hard  on  self-conceited  saints  : 
"  Some  people  think  they  are  saints  ;  if  they  could 
see  themselves  as  the  just  in  glory  see  them,  they 
wouldn't  dare  look  a  decent  devil  in  the  face."  One 
of  his  members  left  the  Bethel  to  be  baptized  ;  it 
was  very  cold  weather,  and  the  water  in  the 
baptistery  had  been  artificially  warmed.  A  short 
time  after,  Father  Taylor  met  his  old  friend,  and 
spoke  to  him  as  having  left  the  Bethel.  "  Ah,"  said 
the  sailor,  "I  couldn't  feel  that  I  could  be  in  the 
fold  unless  I  went  down  into  Jordan."  "Into 
Jordan,"  said  the  old  mdin—"bil'd  Jordan!"  He 
expressed  his  dislike  of  certain  types  of  character 
often  in  very  droll  and  singular  language.  Mean- 
ness and  hypocrisy  were  his  special  abomination  : 
he  was  wont  to  say,  "  It  would  take  more  grace  to 
save  such  a  man  than  it  would  take  skim-milk  tc 
fatten  an  elephant."  His  drollery  seemed  some- 
times fairly  to  carry  him  away,  even  in  the  midst  of 
a  grand  and  graphic  description  ;  describing,  for 
instance,  the  hot  chase  of  Pharaoh  after  the  Israel- 
ites, and  his  discomfiture  in  the  sea,  he  paused,  and 
suddenly  dashed  from  his  climax — "  Brothers,  I 
don't  know  what  you  think  about  it,  but  I  should 
say  Pharaoh  must  have  been  a  hard  drinkery 

Such  illustrations  as  those  we  have  given  seem 
only  to  indicate  a  droll,  grotesque  manner  of  speech, 
rather  of  the  order  of  our  Rowland  Hill.      They  are 


292  FATHER  TAYLOR,    OF  BOSTON. 

quite  the  inferior  aspect  of  his  character  in  public, 
although  they  indicate  great  readiness  of  wit  and 
self-possession  of  manner  ;  but  the  same  vividness 
of  mind  shone  out  in  very  superior  and  different 
radiations.  "  When  I  die,"  he  exclaimed  in  one  of 
his  sermons,  "  don't  bury  me  up  in  the  dirty  ground, 
carry  me  out  to  my  own  blue  sea,  where  I  may  have 
the  seaweed  for  my  shroud,  the  coral  for  my  coffin, 
ocean-mountains  for  my  tombstone,  and  the  music  of 
zephyrs  and  howling  storms  for  my  requiem."  On 
one  occasion  he  was  speaking  of  the  objection  some 
preachers  had  to  baptizing  the  children  of  uncon- 
verted parents  ;  he  took  a  little  infant  in  his  arms, 
he  raised  it  as  he  raised  his  voice,  with  an  inimitable 
gesture,  and  exclaimed  with  volcanic  vehemence, 
"  Why,  if  the  old  devil  himself  would  bring  me  a 
child  to  baptize  I  would  baptize  it,  and  say,  '  Devil, 
go  to  your  own  place ;  angels,  take  the  baby!'" 
Mrs.  Jameson  says  of  him, — 

" '  He  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope.' 

These  images  and  allusions  had  a  freshness,  an 
originality,  and  sometimes  an  oddity,  that  was  quite 
startling  ;  and  they  were  generally,  though  not 
always,  borrowed  from  his  former  profession,  that  of 
a  sailor."  Mrs.  Jameson  met  him  one  day  in  the 
street  ;  he  told  her  he  had  been  burying  an  intant, 
and  he  alluded  in  a  pathetic  manner  to  the  number 
of  infants  he  had  buried  lately  ;  then,  after  a  pause, 
looking  upward,  he  added,  "  There  must  be  some- 
thing wrong  somewhere ;  tJiere's  a  storm  brewing 
tvhen  the  doves  are  all  fiyirig  aloft."       Once  he  spoke 


TOUCHES  OF  TENDERNESS.  zgs 

of  the  folly  of  expecting  great  results  at  once  ;  it 
was  all  beautifully  expressed  in  one  sentence," Carry 
not  the  seed-basket  and  tJie  sickle-  into  the  field 
together^  He  abounded  in  those  sudden  little  rapid 
turns  of  speech  showing  deep  feeling.  He  visited  a 
widow  and  a  daughter,  just  utterly  crushed  and 
broken  down  with  their  new  grief ;  he  said,  taking 
the  widow's  hand,  "  The  thing  you  have  dreaded  so 
long  has  come  upon  you  ;  but,  Ann,  remember, 
there  has  been  no  murder  coininitted  in  this  house  ; 
remember  that,  Ann."  Miss  Martineau  heard  him 
one  morning,  when  he  was  touched  by  the  grief  of  a 
widow,  who  had  also  lost  some  dear  child,  and  he 
burst  out  in  prayer,  "  Father,  look  upon  us,  we  are  a 
xvidoiv ;  Father,  the  mother's  heart  Thou  knowest, 
the  mother's  bleeding  heart  Thou  pitiest,  sanctify  to 
us  the  removal  of  this  lamb."  Miss  Martineau 
heard  him  in  prayer  on  another  occasion,  when 
Boston  was  fearing  conflagration  from  the  intensity  of 
the  heat,  and  he  then  broke  forth,  "  Give  us  water, 
water  ;  the  brooks  refuse  to  murmur,  and  the 
streams  are  dead  !  Break  up  the  fountains,  open 
the  secret  springs  that  Thy  hand  knoweth.  Give  us 
water,  water  1  Let  us  not  perish  by  a  famine  of 
water,  or  a  deluge  of  conflagration,  for  we  dread  the 
careless  wandering  spark."  Preaching  a  funeral 
sermon  for  a  very  useful  minister,  who  died  very 
young  of  consumption,  he  spoke  with  extraordinary 
eloquence  and  power  to  a  deeply-affected  people  ; 
he  said,  "  God  did  not  wish  the  dear  little  man  to 
preach,  He  wanted  him  in  heaven  ;  but  he  was 
anxious  to  do  some  service  for  his  Lord,  and  his 
request  was  granted.      When  his  first  year  closed,  he 


294  FATHER  TAYLOR,   OF  BOSTON. 

would  have  been  taken  at  once  to  heaven,  but  you 
were  so  importunate  to  have  him  back,  that  God 
indulged  you  for  a  little  while  ;  you  had  no  right  to 
expect  he  would  remain  with  you  ;  he  preached  every 
sermon,  as  you  saw,  with  his  winding-sheet  upon  his 
army  Very  strange,  some  will  think  very  question- 
able, were  many  of  the  excursions  of  his  fancy  in 
the  pulpit ;  none  more  so  than  when  he  preached 
the  dedication  sermon  of  the  church  of  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Wise,  of  New  York.  All  the  clergymen  of  the  town 
were  there  in  full  force  ;  Father  Whitney,  the 
Unitarian,  and  his  colleague  ;  Mr.  Hunt,  the 
Episcopal  clergyman  ;  Dr.  Cornell,  the  Calvinist  ; 
the  Baptist  minister,  the  Universalist  minister,  the 
Restorationist. 

"  Father  Taylor  commenced  his  sermon,  and  felt 
it  his  duty  to  take  all  to  task  for  their  various  errors 
and  peculiar  notions,  commencing  with  Father 
Whitney,  as  was  meet,  he  being  the  oldest  minister 
present ;  and,  addressing  himself  to  Mr.  Wise,  he 
said,  *  My  brother,  preach  the  depravity,  the  natural 
wickedness  of  man  ;  some  make  him  very  good  by 
nature,  and  think  there  is  no  devil  in  him.  But 
there  is.  Dress  him  up  ever  so  much,  make  him 
ever  so  learned,  adorn  him  in  all  the  robes  of  polite- 
ness and  all  the  refinement  of  the  most  polished 
society  of  the  most  ornamental  age  of  the  world, 
and  you  cannot  make  him  good.  Oh  no !  You 
have  only  to  pull  off  the  winding-sheet,  and  there  he 
is,  poor,  weak,  sinful  human  nature  still.'  Thus 
much  for  Father  Whitney  and  his  colleague.  When 
he  started  on  a  new  denomination,  he  again  directed 
his  address  to  Mr.  Wise,  by  saying,  '  My  brother,' — 


ADVICE  TO  ALL  DENOMINATIONS.        295 


here  he  took  the  Universalist ;  he  was  of  the  then 
modern  school  of  Mr.  Ballou,  as  he  beheved  in  no 
future  judgment — '  My  brother/  said  he,  '  preach  the 
judgment,  a  future  judgment.  For  my  part,  I  never 
could  see  why  any  man  should  be  afraid  or  ashamed 
to  preach  it.'  There  sat  the  Universalist  minister  in 
the  pulpit,  within  his  reach.  But  he  did  not  spare 
him.  It  was  now  my  turn,  (says  the  minister  who 
gives  this  account).  'My  brother,  preach  free  agency. 
Don't  be  a  fatalist.  Some  ministers  preach  fatalism  ; 
tie  men's  hands  behind  their  backs,  and  then  tell 
them  to  work.  Don't  preach  that  ;  don't  make  the 
Almighty  decree  everything  from  all  eternity,  and 
then  call  on  men  to  break  the  decree.  Preach  man's 
free  will.  Who  ever  heard  of  any  will  but  a  free 
will  ? '  As  we  supposed  this  was  meant  for  us,  we 
laid  it  to  heart ;  and,  though  we  did  not  admit  this 
to  be  a  true  exhibition  of  any  Calvinism,  it  was 
Father  Taylor's  view  of  it.  Here  he  took  the 
Episcopal  minister.  *  My  brother,  keep  your  pulpit 
doors  open.  Some  ministers  shut  them  against 
every  minister  except  one  of  their  own  stripe.  Don't 
do  that.  If  I  could  have  my  will,  there  never 
should  be  a  pulpit  door  in  the  land.  There  are  no 
doors  to  my  pulpit,  and  so  none  can  be  shut.'  Next 
he  took  the  Baptist.  '  My  brother,  preach  baptism, 
it  is  an  ordinance  of  God.  Baptize  the  converted, 
but  don't  make  baptism  all  the  gospel.  Don't  make 
water  everything.  There  are  other  elements  in  the 
world  besides  water  ;  and  there  are  other  things  in 
the  gospel  besides  baptism,  though  some  ministers 
never  see  anything  there  but  baptism.  Don't  make 
dipping  all  your  gospel.'      Then  came  the  Restora- 


296  FATHER   TAYLOR,    OF  BOSTON. 

tionist.  '  My  brother,  preach  future  punishment. 
"  The  wicked  shall  be  turned  into  hell,  and  all  the 
nations  that  forget  God."  Leave  them  there,  my 
brother,  where  the  Bible  does,  and  let  any  minister 
get  them  out  who  can.  But  don't  you  try  it.' 
Having  left  us  all  on  the  beach,  stranded  high  and 
dry,  he  took  another  tack, — showed  his  catholicity, 
and  spread  his  wide  mantle  of  charity  over  us  all, 
and  said,  *  This  is  one  of  the  most  blessed  seasons  I 
ever  enjoyed  ;  indeed,  I  have  never  seen  but  one 
like  it,  and  that  was  when  my  own  church  was 
dedicated,  when  we  had  all  the  stripes  in  the  union  ; 
and,  bless  the  Lord  !  we've  got  them  all  now.' 
This  account,  which  we  vouch  for  as  true,  should 
silence  the  stories  floating  about,  that  Father  Taylor 
had  no  rigidity  in  his  creed,  but  was  a  mere  wit. 
He  was  rigid  enough  in  that  wonderful  sermon  to 
cut  and  slash  us  all,  to  spare  none  but  his  brother 
Methodist ;  and  then  he  was  charitable  enough  to 
throw  his  long  arms  around  us  all,  and  give  us  a  real 
Methodist  hug,  a  genuine  John  Wesley  '  love  feast,' 
and  assure  us  that,  during  his  whole  ministry,  he  had 
never  had  but  one  such  glorious  time  before.  His 
sparing  none  of  us  not  a  whit,  his  leaving  us  high 
and  dry,  where  even  a  '  spring  tide '  could  never 
reach  us, — his  applying  his  rebuke  to  all  of  us — 
Unitarian,  Orthodox,  Episcopal,  Baptist,  Methodist, 
and  Restorationist ;  then  the  contrast — the  fearful 
scowl  changing  to  a  beaming  smile,  the  vengeance- 
bearing  countenance  becoming  a  fascinating  Venus, 
those  long  arms,  that  had  just  been  plunging  us  in 
what  he  believed  the  deep  sea  of  our  flounderings, 
stretched  out  to  draw  us  to  his  bosom,  and  then  that 


HIS  PSEUDO  LIBERALITY.  297 

wiry  supple  form  (a  perfect  hickory  withe),  bending 
forward  to  rescue  us  from  the  briny  deluge  he  had 
just  poured  upon  us,  all  so  graphic,  all  acted  out  so 
pantomimic,  as  would  have  thrown  Mr.  Gough  and 
the  finest  actors  far  into  the  shade, — presented  one 
of  the  most  dramatic  scenes  ever  witnessed.  When 
arraying  our  heresies  before  us,  his  wrinkled  coun- 
tenance was  nearest  to  that  of  a  demon  (if  a  demon 
has  a  cojuntenance)  that  we  could  imagine ;  and, 
when  his  charity  took  us  into  Christian  fellowship, 
angelic  beauty  beamed  from  his  eyes,  and  the  most 
affectionate  salutation  of  brotherly  love  flowed  from 
his  tongue,  so  that  we  were  all  ready  to  exclaim, — 

"'  From  whence  doth  this  union  arise?' 

All  this  showed  the  wonderful  power  of  this  unlearned 
man  ;  and  all  tends  to  approve  what  we  have  often 
advocated  and  recommended  to  young  clergymen — 
the  cultivation  of  a  habit  of  extemporaneous  preach- 
ing, which  an  admirable  Christian  paper  dignifies  by 
the  name  of  '  egotistical  twaddle  ! '  Father  Taylor 
never  preached  a  written  sermon,  never  knew  how 
to  write  one,  would  have  been  shorn  of  his  strength 
if  he  had  undertaken  it.  His  sermons  were  the 
briUiant  efforts  of  an  active  brain,  a  warm  heart,  and 
a  fervent  love,  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion." 

His  liberality  of  sentiment,  in  fact,  became 
scandalous.  At  last  an  article  appeared  in  the 
Recorder,  asking  why  Father  Taylor,  if  he  were  a 
Trinitarian,  should  be  willing  to  associate  with  the 
Unitarians  }  We  have  said  that  he  was  not  affection- 
ately disposed  towards  the  use  of  pen  and  ink ; 
but  he  wrote  to  the  editor  this  answer : — 


298  FATHER   TAYLOR,    OF  BOSTON. 

"Sir, — You  ask  how  it  is  that  I,  if  a  Trinitarian,  am 
willing  to  associate  so  with  Unitarians.  I  am  willing  to 
answer  your  question.  Because  they  are  the  only  people  I 
go  among  where  I  am  in  no  danger  either  of  hearing  my 
religion  insulted,  or  of  having  my  morals  corrupted. 

"I  am  yours,  Edward  T.  Taylor." 

"  Creeds,"  he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "  creeds, 
shipmates — if  anybody  were  to  ask  you,  who  made 
the  heavens  and  the  earth,  and  all  that  are. in  them, 
you  would  very  properly  answer,  God.  And  if  you 
should  be  asked  who  made  all  the  creeds,  you  would 
just  as  readily  respond.  Men,  and  be  right  in  both 
cases.  Now,  creeds,  like  Joseph's  coat  of  many 
colours,  are  made  of  patches,  no  two  of  them  are 
alike,  and  none  to-day  what  it  was  when  first  made. 
Creeds  are  all  well  enough  in  their  way  ;  but  you 
will  readily  perceive,  like  everything  human,  they  are 
imperfect.  No  man  shall  make  a  creed  for  me, 
and  I  am  certain  I  do  not  wish  to  make  a  creed  for 
any  one.  But  a  common  danger  does  make  a  com- 
mon creed." 

Father  Taylor  had  a  broad,  inclusive,  loving 
nature ;  he  was  strongly  evangelical,  but  he  fre- 
quently found  himself  called  severely  to  account  for 
his  friendliness  with,  and  tenderness  towards,  Uni- 
tarians ;  he  was  minister  in  Boston  during  the  whole 
time  of  the  ministry  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  of 
whom  he  said,  "  If  the  devil  got  him,  he  would 
never  know  what  to  do  with  him  ;  there  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  screw  loose  somewhere,  though  I  never 
could  tell  where,  for  listen  as  close  as  I  might,  I 
could  never  hear  any  jar  in  the  machinery."  But 
this    must    have    been     spoken,    we    presume,    with 


JENNY  LIND  IN  BOSTON.  299 

reference  to  the  pulpit  ministrations  of  the  great 
essayist,  and  not  as  a  criticism  upon  his  published 
works.  But  the  lofty  tone  of  liberality,  couched,  wc 
think  it  must  be  admitted,  in  somewhat  extravagant 
language  of  compliment,  surely  reached  its  utmost 
flight  when  he  met  Channing,  and  said  to  him, 
"  When  you  die,  angels  will  fight  to  have  the  honour 
of  carrying  you  to  heaven  on  their  shoulders."  At 
the  same  time,  he  seems  to  have  been  not  always 
remarkably  affectionate  towards  his  Socinian  neigh- 
bours ;  he  shut  himself  up  one  Saturday,  and  left 
orders  with  his  servant,  that  if  the  Apostle  Paul 
called  to  see  him,  he  was  not  to  be  admitted  ;  Dr. 
Bentley,  however,  a  well-known  Socinian  preacher, 
pushed  in,  disregarding  the  injunction,  and  he  stayed 
the  whole  afternoon  ;  rising  to  take  his  leave,  he 
said,  "  Well,  you  gave  orders  that  the  Apostle  Paul 
should  not  come  in,  but  you  see  I've  had  two  hours 
of  your  company."  "  Ah,"  said  Taylor,  "  but  I 
expect  to  spend  a  whole  blessed  eternity  with  St. 
Paul  ;  but  when  I  say  good-bye  to  you,  it's  good-bye 
for  ever." 

Jenny  Lind,  when  in  Boston,  attended  his  services 
at  the  Bethel.  He  neither  knew  she  was  present 
when  she  first  went,  nor  that  she  intended  to  be  ;  but 
some  over-righteous  busybody  sent  a  request  to  him, 
no  doubt  arising  from  the  furore  of  the  excitement 
at  her  presence  in  America,  that  he  would  preach  on 
popular  amusements.  The  church  was  crowded,  the 
pulpit  and  the  stairs  were  filled.  The  sermon 
pursued  its  way,  denouncing  dancing,  card-playing, 
gambling,  and  theatre-going,  but  passing  off  into 
loving  eulogy  on  music  ;  and  then  came  a  glowing 


300  FATHER   TAYLOR,    OF  BOSTON. 

tribute  to  the  power  of  song,  and  to  the  "goodness, 
modesty,  and  charity  of  that  sweetest  of  all  singers 
who  has  just  alighted  upon  these  shores."  Jenny 
Lind  herself,  unknown  to  the  preacher,  was  leaning 
forward  and  drinking  all  in  with  delight,  when, — 
surely  to  the  amazement  of  everybody, — up  rose  a 
tall,  stern  personage  on  the  pulpit  stairs,  and  inquired 
whether  any  one  who  died  at  one  of  Miss  Lind's 
concerts  would  go  to  heaven.  We  may  imagine  the 
disgust  and  contempt  which  swept  across  the  face  of 
the  preacher,  as,  with  astonishment,  he  glared  at  the 
interloper  and  replied,  "A  Christian  will  go  to 
heaven  wherever  he  dies  ;  and  a  fool  will  be  a  fool 
wherever  he  is,  even  on  the  steps  of  the  pulpit." 
After  his  Bethel  became  so  marked  an  object,  his 
personal  friendship  with  the  Unitarians  excited  grave 
disapprobation  ;  and  an  eminent  clergyman  of  the 
exclusive  school  called  upon  him  one  day,  in  a 
remarkably  genial  mood,  saying  he  had  come  to 
help  him.  "  We  feel,"  said  he,  "  a  very  great  interest 
in  your  enterprise,  it  is  doing  great  good  in  the  city  ; 
our  denomination  purpose  to  support  you  in  it." 
"  Thanks  to  the  Lord  for  anybody  who  is  going 
to  help  us ! "   said   Father  Taylor.     "  There    is   one 

condition  about  it,"  said  Dr. ;  "you  must  have 

no  fellowship  with  the  Unitarians."  "  Doctor,"  said 
Father  Taylor,  and  the  flash  from  his  countenance 
may  be  realised  as  he  said  it,  "  I  can't  do  without 
the   Unitarians,  but  I   can   do  without  you." 

Interruptions  in  the  pulpit  never  disturbed  him  ; 
there  was  something  so  natural,  so  colloquial 
frequently,  in  his  style  of  speech,  that,  perhaps,  it 
very  often  provoked  response  and  reply.     He  was 


A    COLLOQUIAL   STYLE.  301 

sometimes  wont  to  single  some  person  out,  to 
individualize,  and  to  talk  to,  with  the  same  freedom 
as  if  he  had  met  the  person  in  the  street.  "  Ah  ! 
my  jolly  tar,"  he  said  once  to  a  sailor  who  happened 
at  that  moment  to  catch  his  eye,  "  ah,  here  you  are 
in  port  again,  God  bless  you  ;  see  to  your  helm,  and 
you  will  reach  a  fairer  port  by-and-bye.  Hark ! 
doit't  yoic  hear  the  bells  of  heaven  over  the  sea?"  He 
excelled  in  those  sudden  rapid  turns  of  expression 
and  feeling  in  which  the  power  of  apostrophe  exists  ; 
preaching  from  the  great  saying  of  Paul,  "  Henceforth 
there  is  laid  up  for  me  a  crown  of  righteousness," 
etc.,  etc.,  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  cried  with  a  loud 
voice,  "  Paul,  are  there  any  more  crowns  up  there  }  " 
He  paused,  looked  down,  casting  his  eyes  over  the 
congregation,  "  Yes,  my  brethren,  there  are  more 
crowns  left.  Blessed  be  God  !  there  is  one  for  me, 
and  one  for  all  of  you  who  love  the  appearing  of 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ."  Preaching  on  universalism, 
from  the  text,  "  The  wicked  shall  be  turned  into 
hell,"  he  exclaimed,  "  God  said  that — how  many 
piping  pettifoggers  of  Satan  will  you  set  against  His 
word  ?  Voltaire  !  " — pausing,  bending  forward,  and 
looking  down — "  Voltaire,  what  do  you  think  about 
it  now  ? " 

Good  and  great  as  he  was,  he  once  fell  into  the 
clutches  of  the  law.  A  poor  sailor  owed  a  man  a 
bill,  who  was  going  to  take  his  furniture  ;  Father 
Taylor  offered  to  let  the  sailor  paint  his  house,  and 
so  pay  the  bill  himself.  He  gave  the  man  his  note  ; 
the  sailor  ran  off  and  did  not  do  the  painting. 
Taylor  claimed  that  he  did  not  owe  the  note.  The 
man    sued    him,    and    seized    upon    his    horse    and 


302  FATHER  TAYLOR,    OF  BOSTON. 

carriage,  a  very  valuable  present  from  a  friend,  which 
he  rated  very  highly.  Taylor  forbade  any  of  his 
friends  to  attend  the  sale  to  save  his  horse  and 
carriage ;  and  he  refused  to  accept  the  balance 
offered  him  by  the  sheriff  over  the  claim.  But  he 
made  the  subject  the  topic  of  his  next  Sabbath 
discourse,  from  the  text,  "  If  any  man  take  away  thy 
cloak,  let  him  have  thy  coat  also."  And  the  sermon 
appears  to  have  been  a  very  wise  one.  He  went  on 
to  speak  of  the  duty  of  submitting  to  the  law,  even 
though  it  were  unjust  or  cruel  ;  just  as  sailors  must 
obey  laws  on  board  ship,  must  not  question  them, 
deny  duty,  or  mutiny,  even  although  they  were 
abused.  "  If,"  said  he,  "  we  were  going  upon  the 
principle  of  resisting  evil,  we  should  be  lawless,  for 
all  human  laws  have  evil  in  them  ;  they  were  made 
by  sinners  to  govern  sinners,  and  the  devil  had  a 
hand  in  making  all  of  them.  All  human  laws  are 
crooked,  like  the  roads  in  a  new  country  ;  law  is  not 
always  justice ;  there  is  only  one  just,  perfectly 
square  law  in  the  universe,  and  that  is  God's  law  ; 
it  is  straight  right  up  and  down,  and  does  not  twist 
any  more  than  a  pump  bolt.  You  won't  gain  any- 
thing by  going  to  law,  I  tell  you,  the  feathers  will 
come  out  of  your  neighbour's  goose.  A  Christian 
going  to  law  is  out  of  his  place,  he  is  coming  down 
to  the  level  of  the  world.  Suppose  you  were  going 
along  the  street  where  a  jackass  was  hitched  to  a 
post,  and  he  was  to  up  foot  and  kick  you,  then  you 
should  up  and  kick  him.  Why,  he  is  only  acting 
out  his  own  nature,  while  you  have  made  a  jackass 
of  yourself,  and  there's  a  pair  of  jackasses  ;  I  entreat 
you  all  not  to  make  jackasses  of  yourselves."     Then 


BETTER   THAN  A    THEATRES  303 


he  proceeded  to  give  an  account  of  his  own  case, 
moralizing  upon  it  as  he  went  along.  The  man 
who  had  injured  him  was  all  the  time  in  the  church  ; 
he  could  endure  it  no  longer,  he  got  up  and  made 
haste  to  the  door ;  the  preacher  shouted,  "  Here, 
come  here,  you  have  not  got  half  your  dose  yet." 
But  the  man  thought  otherwise,  he  did  not  stop  to 
hear  any  more,  but  hastened  out  of  the  chapel. 
The  Rev.  Elijah  Kellogg  was  there,  and  he  narrates 
the  whole  circumstances  of  the  sermon  ;  as  he  came 
out  he  noticed  the  satisfaction  of  the  rough  sailors 
at  the  plain  talk  of  their  favourite  apostle,  clapping 
one  another  on  the  back,  and  exclaiming,  "  Is  not 
this  better  than  a  theatre  "i " 

He  was  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  of  modern 
preachers.  To  those  to  whom  he  especially  ad- 
dressed himself,  he  was  a  perpetual  fountain  of 
inspiration  and  joy  ;  but  we  have  seen  that  the  most 
cultivated  tastes — Mrs.  Jameson,  Emerson,  Everett, 
and  a  host  beside — felt  no  offence  as  they  listened 
to  his  ministrations,  which  trembled  with  all  the 
brightness  of  the  aurora,  flashed  like  lightning,  or 
fell  upon  the  conscience  like  refreshing  rain.  The 
man  was  certainly  inimitable :  it  is  impossible  to 
hold  him  up  as  a  model,  he  was  a  law  unto  himself, 
he  swept  along  through  his  own  large  ellipse,  an 
entirely  extemporaneous  talker,  throwing  forth  his 
words  with  all  the  force  of  geysers  ;  he  was  entirely 
untrammelled  by  any  of  the  proprieties  of  denomina- 
tionalism  on  the  one  hand,  or  of  human  learning, 
and  scholarship  on  the  other ;  he  was  something 
like  what  he  said  St  Peter  was,  "  the  last  end 
of  a  thunder-storm,  softened  by  the  breath  of  the 


304  FATHER   TAYLOR,    OF  BOSTON. 

Almighty."  He  puts  us  in  mind  of  what  he  said 
about  sailors.  "  Sailors  ignorant  ? "  he  exclaimed 
once ;  "  sailors  know  everything,  they  grasp  the 
world  in  their  hand  like  an  orange."  And  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  truth  in  it,  both  of  them,  and  especially 
of  him  ;  not  knowledge  that  can  be  very  nicely 
fitted  into  routine,  but  a  knowledge  of  experience 
cropping  up  for  all  occasions.  We  see  very  clearly, 
his  was  a  mind  routine  would  have  damaged. 
Suppose  this  man  to  have  been  drilled  in  class-rooms, 
to  have  travelled  through  college  and  university 
courses,  to  have  had  imparted  to  him  the  vanity  and 
self-consciousness  of  the  bookman,  and  the  nice  fas- 
tidiousness of  the  grammarian,  nothing  could  ever 
have  robbed  him  of  much  of  the  flow  and  power  of 
his  character,  but  he  would  simply  have  become  a  fine 
canal,  instead  of  a  grand,  ample,  flowing  river. 

For  indeed  it  is  true,  there  are  men  who  preach 
like  canals — their  divisions  resemble  the  locks,  and 
their  ideas  are  tugged  heavily  along  from  the 
margin  ;  and  there  are  preachers  who  resemble  the 
river,  in  a  fine  and  natural  freedom  of  character  and 
an  instructive  harmony  and  beauty  combining  all 
pleasant  things  upon  their  shores  of  thought.  He 
had  a  free,  spontaneous  mind,  inquisitive  and  quick 
to  apprehend,  strong,  retentive,  and  ready  ;  a  know- 
ledge more  of  men,  things,  and  the  world  than  of 
books.  And  who  does  not  know  how  the  know- 
ledge of  books  weakens  the  mind,  unless  it  be  related 
lo  a  knowledge  of  life  and  things  ? 

We  have  already  said  that  manner  is  everything 
in  the  pulpit.  It  is  no  depreciation  of  the  orator's 
genius   to   say  that  his  power  lies  less  in  what  he 


THE  MANNER  IS  THE  SOUL.  305 


says  than  in  how  he  says  it  ;  his  manner  is  his  soul 
and  it  measures  the  earnestness  of  the  man  ;  but 
thus  it  appears  that  earnestness  and  eccentricity  are 
by  no  means  incompatible  or  uncompanionable. 
We  are  not  thinking  of  that  eccentricity  in  which 
inferior  men  think,  by  loud  shouting,  or  mere  drollery 
and  oddity,  or  frantic  gesticulation,  to  produce  the 
impression  which  only  sanctified  genius  can  produce  ; 
the  counterfeit  is  wretched,  and  the  end  is  only 
derision  and  disgust.  Charles  Dickens  heard  Father 
Taylor  preach,  and  has  given  to  us  a  vivid  descrip- 
tion of  the  sermon,  from  the  text  "  Who  is  this  that 
Cometh  up  from  the  wilderness,  leaning  on  her 
beloved  .-'  "  He  says  that  Father  Taylor  handled 
his  text  in  all  kinds  of  ways,  and  twisted  it  into  all 
manner  of  shapes.  He  was,  as  usual,  preaching  to 
sailors  in  the  Bethel  Chapel  ;  his  imagery  was  all 
drawn  from  the  sea,  and  he  walked  to  and  fro  in 
the  pulpit,  with  his  Bible  under  his  arm.  "  Who 
are  these  ? "  he  exclaimed.  "  Who  are  they  }  who 
are  these  fellows  .-'  where  do  they  come  from  1  where 
are  they  going  \.ot  Come  from  !  What's  the  answer.?" 
leaning  out  of  the  pulpit,  and  pointing  downward 
with  his  right  hand  :  "  From  below  ! "  starting  back 
again,  and  looking  at  the  sailors  before  him  :  "  From 
below,  my  brethren.  From  under  the  hatchways  of 
sin,  battened  down  above  you  by  the  Evil  One. 
That's  where  you  come  from  !  "  then  a  walk  up  and 
down  the  pulpit.  "  And  where  are  you  going .?  " 
stopping  abruptly.  "  Where  are  you  going  }  Aloft !"  • 
(very  softly,  and  pointing  upward).  "Aloft!"  (louder). 
"  Aloft  !  "  (louder  still)  ;  "  that's  where  you're  going 
— with   a   fair    wind — all    taut    and    trim,    steering 

20 


3o6  FATHER  TAYLOR,    OF  BOSTON. 

direct  for  heaven,  in  all  its  glory,  where  there  are  no 
storms,  nor  foul  weather,  and  where  the  wicked  cease 
from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest."  Another 
walk  :  "  That's  where  you  are  going  to,  my  friends  ; 
that's  it ;  that's  the  place  ;  that's  the  port  ;  that's 
the  haven.  It's  a  blessed  harbour.  Still  water  there 
in  all  changes  of  the  winds  and  the  tides ;  no  driving 
ashore  upon  the  rocks,  or  slipping  your  cables  and 
running  out  to  sea  there.  Peace  !  peace  !  peace  ! 
all  peace!"  Another  walk,  and,  patting  the  Bible 
under  his  left  arm,  "  What,  these  fellows  are  coming 
from  the  wilderness,  are  they }  Yes,  from  the  dreary 
blighted  wilderness  of  iniquity,  whose  only  crop  is 
death.  But  do  they  lean  on  anything,  or  do  they 
lean  upon  nothing,  these  poor  seamen  .-* "  (three  raps 
upon  the  Bible).  "  Oh  yes,  yes  ;  they  lean  upon  the 
arm  of  their  Beloved  !  "  (three  more  raps),  "  upon  the 
arm  of  their  Beloved  !  "  (three  more  raps,  and  a 
walk),  "  pilot,  guiding  star,  and  compass  all  in  one  ! 
Here  it  is  "  (three  more),  "  here  it  is  ;  they  can  do 
their  seaman's  duty  manfully,  and  be  easy  in  their 
minds,  in  the  utmost  peril  and  danger,  with  this!" 
(two  more.)  "  They  can  come,  even  these  poor 
fellows  can  come  from  the  wilderness  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  their  Beloved,  and  go  up,  up,  up  " — raising 
his  hand  higher  and  higher  at  every  repetition  of  the 
word,  so  that  he  stood  with  it  at  last  stretched  above 
his  head,  regarding  them  in  a  strange,  rapt  manner, 
and  pressing  the  book  triumphantly  to  his  breast, 
until  he  gradually  subsided  into  some  other  portion 
of  his  discourse. 

We  suppose  it  is  certain  that  now  nothing  better 
can  be  given  to  the  world  about  him  than  the  pleasing 


THE  END.  307 

biography  to  which  we  have  been  greatly  indebted 
for  this  paper  ;  his  name  has  long  been  well  known 
to  us,  and  it  seems  some  occasion  for  grief  that  all 
the  rich  sayings,  humorous  and  poetical,  which  have 
called  forth  from  such  competent  critics  such  glowing 
and  fervent  eulogy,  must  for  the  most  part  perish, 
except  as  they  bore  that  best  of  all  fruitfulness  which 
made  his  name  beloved,  and  pronounced  with  affec- 
tion in  every  part  of  the  world,  by  those  to  whom  he 
was  an  especial  apostle  and  favourite — "  the  men 
who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  and  do  business  on 
the  great  waters."  He  lived  so  long,  that  during 
many  years  he  was  laid  by  from  active  labour  ;  but, 
when  he  died,  a  universal  gush  of  love,  if  not  of  grief, 
burst  forth  and  followed  him  to  the  grave.  His 
death  was  not  unbeautiful.  Some  one  called  upon 
him  just  before,  and  said,  "  There's  sweet  rest  in 
heaven."  "  Go  there,  if  you  want  to,"  said  the  old 
man.  But  the  consoler  persisted,  "  Think  of  the 
angels  who  will  welcome  you."  "  What  do  I  want 
with  angels  ?  "  he  said,  "I  want  folks  ;  "  but  then  he 
added,  "  Angels  are  folks,"  and  that  thought  seemed 
to  comfort  him — "Angels  are  folks."  He  prayed  as 
he  was  dying,  "  Some  summer  morning.  Lord,  come 
and  snatch  me  to  Thyself."  Roman  Catholic 
children  and  young  women  thronged  round  his 
coffin  on  the  day  of  his  burial.  He  lay  on  his  cheek 
in  his  coffin,  in  his  white  dressing-gown  ;  above  him 
hung  an  anchor  of  fragrant  flowers  ;  so  crowds  had 
an  opportunity  of  gazing  their  last  upon  his  serene 
features,  majestic  in  their  last  repose,  all  the  weariness 
and  the  decay  gone,  and  only  his  spiritual  greatness 
floating  over  his  countenance. 


3o8  FATHER   TAYLOR,    OF  BOSTON. 

We  have  only  to  say  now,  that  he  seems  to  us, 
among  the  many  remarkable  preachers  of  our  time, 
entirely  himself,  and  one  of  the  most  remarkable  ; 
second  in  his  own  way  to  none  ;  in  the  faculty  of  pure 
preaching,  the  life  of  simple  speech,  and  the  effect 
of  simple  speech,  superior,  perhaps,  to  every  one. 
He  was  a  wandering  voice.  Looking  through  the 
galleries  of  preachers,  it  is  quite  easy  to  see  a 
number  of  things  he  was  not,  and  never  pretended 
to  be.  Nor  is  it  of  any  use  commending  him  to 
imitation.  Such  men  are  remarkable,  almost,  as 
curiosities  ;  and  yet  perhaps  it  is  still  true,  that  the 
intense  mind,  bringing  itself  face  to  face  with  the 
thought  which  has  impressed  it,  rather  than  dissipat- 
ing intensity  by  elaborate  word-spinning  about  it, 
might  sometimes  rise  to  fervent  apprehensions  and 
feelings  which,  if  not  magnificent,  as  Father  Taylor's, 
might  yet,  like  his,  be  fresh,  unmonotonous,  and 
interesting  by  their  human  life  and  power. 


CHAPTER   X. 

LIVE  COALS,   TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF 
DISCOURSE. 

THAT  was  a  stirring  spectacle,  to  which  we  have 
already   slightly  referred,    when,  in   Judea,    in 
the    time    of   the    Restoration,   Ezra    ascended    the 
pulpit  of  wood  in  the  great  broad  street  called  the 
Water-gate,  in  Old  Jerusalem,  when  all  the  people 
"  gathered  themselves  together  as  one  man  "  to  listen 
to  the  reading  of  the  Book  of  the  Law.     There  were 
probably  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  thousand  persons 
present,  bending  and  straining  their  ears  reverently 
to  catch  some  of  the  words  of  the  loved  and  glorious 
book  ;   a  stirring  sight  indeed  in  that  lonely  land, 
isolated  in  locality,  and  cut  off  from  all  the  nations 
of  the  earth  by  affinities  dimly  comprehended,  but 
eternally  interesting  to  themselves,  and  to  millions 
on   millions   then   unborn.      It  was   a   Sabbath-day. 
It  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  its  Oriental  splendour  ; 
the   fierceness   of   the  sun    had    not    perhaps    risen 
when,  in  the  early  morning,  the  restored  dwellings 
were  all  forsaken  ;  the  city  bore  indeed  all  the  traces 
of   desolation,    the    houses    were    stained    with    the 
appearances    of    ruin,  but  nature   was    lovely:    the 
tamarind,  the  palm,  and  the  dark  cedar  bent  grace- 
fully on  the  distant  horizon.     On  the   outskirts  of 


jio       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 

that  vast  crowd,  it  is  true,  the  sceptic,  the  pagan, 
and  the  sneerer  were  to  be  seen  ;    and   those  who 
knew  the  temper  of  the  Israelite    knew,  also,  that 
in   the  midst  of  that  vast  crowd   were   many  faint 
and  faithless  hearts  ;  but  the  mighty  nationality  of 
their  ancient  faith,  that  bright  morning,  quickened 
every   pulse    and    gladdened    every   cheerless  spirit. 
The  crowds  of  the  priests  were  there  ;    the  sacred 
band  of  the  Levites  ;  the  singers  with  their  instru- 
ments were  not  wanting,  and   even  the  weary  and 
the  oppressed  Nethinim,  hewer  of  wood  and  drawer 
of  water,  felt  that  morning  that  he  had  some  relation- 
ship with  the  land  of  the  covenant  and  the  promise. 
But  when  Ezra  appeared  in  that  pulpit,  over  the 
platform  on  which  stood  the  priests  and  the  princes 
of  the  people,  and  produced  the  Bible,  the  Book  of 
the  Law,  "  in  the  sight  of  all  the  people,  for  he  was 
above  all  the  people,"  then  rose  to  their  feet,  with 
a  reverent  joy,  the  great  audience.     They  stood  up  ; 
and  as  he,  the  great  representative  of  their  religion, 
blessed   the  Lord,  the  great  God   of  their  fathers,  a 
loud    but    deep    universal   Amen !  Amen !   ascended 
from  every  lip  in   that  vast  crowd.      They  lifted  up 
their  hands — a  forest  of  hands — and  then  with  deep 
silence  "  bowed  their  faces  to  the  ground."      It  was 
a  sublime  and  affecting  sight ;    it  stirs  and  affects 
us  now,  after  all  these  centuries  have  rolled  away, 
and    scattered   to   the   remotest    climes   the  dust  of 
that   amazing  host.     The  alternations  of  that  deep 
and  full  Amen,  and  the  heads  bowed  in   silence  in 
the  dust  until,  when   the  priests  began  to  read  the 
Book  which  had  been    silently  held    aloft,  the    roll 
simply  unfolded,  in  the  majesty  of  expressive  silence 


IDEAL   OF  A    CHRISTIAN  SERVICE.    J^^ 

to  the    eye,    then   there   was    a    burst    of   weeping 
through  all  the  host  that  once  more  the  Fatherland 
was   reached;  once   more   the  oracle   of  Smai   was 
proclaimed  ;  tears  of  patriotic  piety  welled  up  from 
their  hearts  as  they  heard  the  words  of  their  beloved 
Law      Then,  the  Book  was  read  distinctly,  and  the 
priests  gave  the   sense,  and    caused    the  people   to 
understand   the   reading,  till  after  many  hours  had 
passed  ;  then  Ezra  said  to  them  all,  "  Go  your  way  : 
eat  the  fat  and  drink  the  sweet,  and  send  portions  to 
them  for  whom  nothing  is  prepared,  for  this  day  is 
holy  unto  the  Lord,  for  the  joy  of  the  Lord  is  your 

stren  ^th 

Often  as  we  have  read  that  beautiful  history  it 
has  seemed  to  us  to  be  the  very  ideal  of  a  Christian 
service,   and,   indeed,   in   all    ages    since,   the    trues 
service  has  approached  to  this,  and   partaken  of  all 
the  features  of  that  great  and  memorable  day       ine 
mighty  multitudes  of  the  people  animated  by  one 
impulse   of   devotion,   the    priests   by   the    mingled 
desire  to   inflame   the  heart  with  gratitude   and  to 
lead  the  spirit  by  gentle  instruction,  till    when  the 
service  is  broken  up,  each  auditor  feels  that  he  has 
not   only   eaten   the   fat,   and   drunk   the  sweet  for 
himself,  but  that  he  has  the  portion   for  those  for 
whom  nothing  had  been  prepared,  confined  to  their 
rooms    or    avocations    at    home.       Mighty    is    the 
ministry  that  can  thus  dispense  spiritual  food,  and 
worthless  that  which  cannot. 

Very  different  was  the  scene  we  should  have 
beheld  had  we  then,  or  rather  at  some  subsequent 
period,  when  that  city  was  in  its  pride  and  splendour, 
entered  Athens.      At    the  very  moment,  probably. 


312       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE, 

when  Ezra  lifted  aloft  the  Book  of  the  Law  to  the 
gaze  of  the  people,  beneath  the  beautiful  skies  of 
Greece,  some  of  the  great  teachers  of  that  august 
republic  were  discoursing.  It  was  the  age  of 
Grecian  mind  and  philosophy  ;  walk  through  the 
charmed  city  ;  stretch  the  imagination  ;  let  it  rest 
on  the  whole  of  the  religious  and  literary  history 
of  that  wonderful  and  immortal  spot,  everything 
awes  the  heart  and  captivates  the  taste  ;  the 
imagination  is  inflamed  there ;  the  senses  are  all 
entranced  there.  Very  different  those  white  shining 
marble  beauties  amidst  the  trees,  those  glorious 
pillars  of  Pentelicus  that  crown  the  hill,  the  long 
groves  and  arcades  of  statues  that  stretch  out  seven 
miles  to  the  Propylaeum,  the  magnificent  temples,  the 
gods  in  their  agony  or  their  calm  ;  very  different 
this  proud  spot  from  the  poor  deserted  and  tributary 
spot  of  earth  we  have  left  where  the  walls  began 
to  look  out  from  their  encumbering  desolation  ;  but 
which  spot  of  earth  has  influenced  most  the  moral 
destinies  of  the  world  ?  Step  behind  that  grove  of 
thick  laurels  and  beautiful  trees  ;  that  venerable 
and  cheery  old  man  is  Herodotus,  reading  his  im- 
mortal History.  Have  you  listened  long  enough } 
Step  on.  Here  is  a  spectacle,  this  mighty  theatre 
filled  with  all  the  beauty  and  bravery  of  Greece, 
the  Panopticon  of  that  civilization  then  bending 
beneath  the  strong  spell  of  a  genius  the  most  awful 
of  that  age  and  world  ;  Sophocles  is  reading  his 
"  CEdipus  in  Colonus."  Step  on  again  ;  change  again 
the  scene  and  the  age,  but  linger  in  the  same  city. 
Enter  beneath  this  marble  portico  ;  select,  but  grave 
and  great,  see  them  gathered  round  that  monarch- 


THE  LIVING  MIND.  313 

man  ;  it  is  Plato  mingling  and  pouring  forth  his 
wonderful  dialectics  of  light  and  fire.  Yet,  in  all  that 
city,  among  all  those  teachers  and  auditors,  there  is 
not  one  scene  so  sublime  as  that  we  saw  a  little  time 
since  in  the  holy,  ruined  Jerusalem,  when,  before  the 
holding  aloft  the  Book  of  the  Law,  the  mighty 
thousands  bowed  their  heads,  and  sobbed  in  speech- 
less love  and  reverence.  And  yet  we  fear  it  must 
be  said  of  a  great  number  of  our  ministers,  especially 
of  our  rising  ministers,  that  they  imitate  Greece 
rather  than  Judea,  Herodotus  or  Plato  rather  than 
Ezra,  and  aim  rather  to  produce  a  cold  and  brilliant 
essay  than  a  warm  and  fiery  emotion  of  love  or  a 
useful  and  permanent  principle  of  action  in  the 
heart. 

In  some  future  chapter  we  shall  discourse  upon 
Dry  Sticks, — a  large  forest,  if  not  a  fruitful  one, —  in 
dealing  with  texts  and  topics  and  modes  of  discourse; 
the  words  of  this  chapter  shall  be  devoted  to  live 
coals  which  have  kindled  souls  from  the  throne  of 
eloquence.  We  need  scarcely  say,  first,  everything 
is  in  the  living  mind  :  the  living  mind  imparts  its 
own  freshness  and  fulness  of  life  to  every  thing, 
text,  or  topic  it  touches  ;  when  the  preacher  always 
thinks  of  himself,  and  carries  his  own  intellectual 
self  and  perceptions  foremost  and  uppermost,  he 
finds  himself  ever  defeated  and  thrown  back.  A 
touch  of  true  nature  finds  people,  melts  them,  and 
bears  them  down  ;  but  it  may  not  be  always  easy 
work,  and  all  real  ministers  have  had  depressing 
experiences.  A  deservedly  well-known,  greatly 
loved  and  useful  clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
England  has  told  us  how  well  he  remembers,  when 


314       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 

he  was  a  young  curate,  calling  upon  a  poor  old 
woman  in  a  grim  neighbourhood,  in  his  large  London 
parish  ;  the  old  creature  saw,  it  may  be  supposed, 
that  he  was  a  kind  of  'prentice  hand  at  his  work, 
and  the  poor  old  body  attempted  to  put  him  at  his 
ease  in  it.  "  Now,"  said  she,  "  young  man,  I  see 
you  are  a  new  hand  ;  don't  you  be  narvious  ;  all  that 
you  have  got  to  do  is  to  read  me  a  short  psalm,  and 
give  me  a  shilling" — not  a  very  hopeful  kind  of 
pastoral  visitation  this  for  the  Live  Coal  which  the 
young  man  unquestionably  became.  And  we  know 
how  the  entrance  on  the  work  of  the  ministry  in  the 
Dark  Ages  has  often  been  satirized ;  there  is  a 
capital  French  epigram  before  us,  describing  the 
popular  impression  of  the  monk,  minister,  parson, 
or  priest  before  the  Reformation.  We  need  not 
quote  the  French,  but  simply  give  the  translation, 
from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Adam  Clarke : — 

"  A  crotchet  came  into  a  wiseacre's  head 
To  enter  the  Church  for  a  morsel  of  bread; 
So  away  to  the  bishop  he  instantly  hies, 
Announces  his  business  ;  the  prelate  replies, 
*  If  you  wish  to  be  priested,  and  guide  men  to  heaven, 
How  many  in  number  are  the  Sacraments  seven  ? ' 
Having  studied  a  while,  he  replied,  '  They  are  three  T 
The  prelate  rejoins,  '  Pray,  sir,  which  may  they  be  ? ' 
'  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,'  the  scholar  replies  ; 
'  By  the  Mass  ! '  says  the  bishop,  '  you're  wondrously  wise; 
You've  answered  discreetly,  your  learning  is  sound, 
Few  bishops  at  present  have  lore  so  profound ; 
See,  clerk,  that  his  orders  be  written  with  speed. 
He  merits  the  tonsure,  and  you  shall  be  fee'd.'  " 

Heat !  Live  coals  !      But  a  great  deal  of  what  is 
supposed  to  aid  the  preacher  now-a-days,  we  should 


MECHANICAL  EQUIVALENTS  FOR  HEAT.  315 


call,  if  we  may  borrow  an  expression  from  the 
science  of  energy  in  our  time,  a  mechanical  equivalent 
for  heat.  It  is  known,  or  it  is  suspected,  that  our 
planet  is  suffering  from  the  decay,  the  diminution 
of  energy,  or  force  ;  that  she  seems  to  stagger,  as 
if  tired,  through  the  celestial  spaces  ;  and  as  with 
the  planet,  so  with  the  pulpit ;  our  studies  for  the 
pulpit  seem  often  to  be  like  a  laying  the  wood,  but 
putting  no  fire  under  ;  and  even  if  the  fire  were  put 
under,  it  could  only  be  another  kind  of  friction,  a 
mechanical  equivalent  for  heat. 

Few  words  about  preaching  have  had  more  of  the 
live   coal    in  them  than  some  by  Charles   Dickens. 
He  went  to  hear  a  well-known  minister  preach  to 
four    thousand    people    in    the    Britannia  Theatre  ; 
the  preacher  talked    about   a  Christian  philosopher 
contemplating  death,  and  so  on,  and   Dickens  was 
disappointed  ;  he  mentioned  no  names,  but  he  said, 
"Why,   in    the    New   Testament   there   is  the  most 
beautiful  and  affecting  history  conceivable  by  man, 
and  there  are  terse  models  for  all  prayer  and  for  all 
preachers;    else    why    are    they    there?     Consider! 
As  to  the  history,  tell  it.     Some  people  cannot  read  ; 
some     people    will    not    read  ;    many    people    (this 
especially  holds  with  the  young  and   the  ignorant) 
find  it  hard  to  pursue  the  verse  form  in  which  the 
book  is  prescribed  to  them,  and  imagine  that  those 
breaks  imply  gaps   and  want  of  continuity.      Help 
them  over  the  first  stumbling-block  by  setting  forth 
the  history  in  narrative,  with  no  fear  of  exhausting 
it.     You  will  never  preach  so  well,  you  will  never 
move  them  so  profoundly,  you  will  never  send  them 
away  with  half  so  much  to  think  of     Which  is  the 


3i6       2EXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 

better  interest,  Christ's  choice  of  twelve  poor  men  to 
.help  in  those  merciful  wonders  among  the  poor  and 
rejected,  or  the  pious  bullying  of  a  whole  Union  full 
of  paupers  ?  What  is  your  changed  philosopher  to 
wretched  me, — peeping  in  at  the  door,  out  of  the 
mud  of  the  streets  and  of  my  life,  when  you  have 
the  widow's  son  to  tell  me  about  ?  the  ruler's 
daughter — and  the  other  figure  at  the  door  ?  When 
the  brother  of  the  two  sisters  was  dead,  one  of 
the  two  ran  to  the  mourner,  crying,  '  The  Master  is 
come,  and  calleth  for  tJieey  Let  the  preacher  who 
will  thoroughly  forget  himself,  and  remember  no 
individuality  but  one,  and  no  eloquence  but  one, 
stand  up  before  four  thousand  men  and  women  at 
the  Britannia  Theatre,  any  Sunday  night,  recounting 
that  narrative  to  them,  as  to  fellow-creatures,  and  he 
shall  see  a  sight !  " 

The  text  has  often  been  a  live  coal ;  sometimes 
we  have  even  thought,  when  announced,  that  it  must 
be  the  best  part  of  all  the  sermon,  but,  certainly, 
from  lips  of  a  widely  different  order  from  him  of 
whom  Cowper  speaks  as 

"  The  thing  which  mounts  the  rostrum  with  a  skip." 

Levity  in  the  pulpit  is,  if  we  think  of  it,  a 
wonderful  thing ;  and  it  can  only  coexist  with  an 
utter  abandonment  to  conceit,  and  entire  unconscious- 
ness both  of  the  sacred  truth,  and  of  the  deference 
due  to  an  audience  of  thinking,  affectionate  beings. 
But  levity  itself  is  many-coloured,  and  there  is  a 
kind  of  levity  which  audiences  have  liked  and 
encouraged, — a  ridiculous  and  flippant  treatment  of 
sacred  topics,  ingenious,  trifling,  exhibiting,  perhaps, 


INGENIOUS  TRIFLING.  317 

the  cleverness  of  the  preacher  and  his  knowledge  of 
his  own  cleverness,  but  out  of  keeping  with  the  • 
great  business  for  which  the  pulpit  was  erected.  In 
the  history  of  the  pulpit  there  have  been  times  when 
this  ingenious  trifling  was  greatly  the  fashion.  A 
preacher  of  the  times  of  James  the  First  has  left  a 
sermon  from  the  text,  "-^«^  Bartholomew,"  the  great 
business  of  which  was  to  show  that  the  name  of 
Bartholomew  never  appears  in  Scripture  without  the 
copulative  conjunction  "and"  and  from  this  he 
proceeds  to  argue  for  the  Christian  duty  of  mutual 
help  and  assistance,  and  all  this  is  evolved  from  the 
monosyllable  "and."  There  is  also  a  well-known 
story  of  one  of  these  ingenious  worthies,  who  was  a 
candidate  for  a  lectureship  in  one  of  the  churches 
in  London  ;  and,  who,  desirous  of  giving  a  most 
favourable  impression  of  the  ingenuity  with  which 
he  could  torture  a  text  to  his  own  meaning,  took 
for  his  subject  the  word  "But."  The  disjunctive 
conjunction  led  him  to  discourse  and  dwell  upon  the 
truth  that  there  was  no  lot  in  life  without  its  cross  : 
"  Naaman  was  a  mighty  and  honourable  man  of 
valour,  but  he  was  a  leper."  "  The  five  wicked 
cities  were  as  fruitful  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord, 
but  the  men  of  Sodom  were  wicked  and  sinners 
before  the  Lord  exceedingly."  "  The  inhabitants  of 
Ai  thought  they  had  put  the  Israelites  to  flight,  but 
they  knew  not  that  there  were  Hers  in  wait  behind 
the  city  "  ;  and  so  went  on  the  divine,  well  satisfied 
with  his  ingenious  performance.  Arrived  in  the 
vestry,  he  was  met  by  the  chief  trustee  of  the 
lectureship,  who  said  to  him,  "  Sir,  it  was  a  most 
ingenious  discourse,  and  we  are  exceedingly  obliged 


3i8       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 

to  you  for  it,  but  you  are  not  the  preacher  that  will 
do  for  us."      It  has  been   truly  said  that  there  is  a 
great  difference  between  the  foolishness  of  preaching 
and    foolish    preaching.     There    have    been    foolish 
sermons    where   the    preacher   has    been   altogether 
unaware  of  the  folly  leaping  from  his  lips.      Some- 
times the  overflowing  humour  of  a  man  has  led  him 
to  be  guilty  of  sins  against  good  taste  ;  on  the  other 
hand,  the   entire  absence    of  humour  in  some  men 
has  quite  prevented  their  perception  of  the  grotesque. 
It  is  to  Dr.  Parker,  of  London,  we  are  indebted  for 
an   illustration   of  the  first,    upon    the  text,  "  Your 
adversary  the  devil  goeth  about  like  a  roaring  lion 
seeking  whom  he  may  devour."     I  do  not  think  his 
readers  would  be  likely  to  forget  his  four  heads  of 
analytic    Satanology :    First,    who   the   devil   is   he } 
"  Your  adversary."      Second,  what  the   devil    is   he 
like  .''   Like  a  "  roaring  lion."     Third,  where  the  devil 
is  he  .''     "  He  is  going  about."     Fourth,  what  the  devil 
is    he  up    to }      He    is    "  seeking    whom    he    may 
devour."  *     Is  not  this  a  pretty  model  of  what  may 
be    called   "  the    textual "   style   of   treatment   of  a 
subject  ? 

But  as  an  illustration  of  the  second  order — the 
entire  absence  of  humour — we  might  refer  back  to 
Robert  Robinson's  account,  already  quoted,  of  what 
may  be  called  truly  a  nasty  sermon,  from  the  ill- 
judged  text  Leviticus  iii.  3,  4 :  *'  And  he  shall 
offer,"  etc.  f 

And  yet  even  in  such  expositions  as  these  perhaps 

*  "Springdale    Abbey:    Extracts    from    the    Diaries    and 
Letters  of  an  English  Preacher." 
t  See  pages  275,  276. 


''AND   THAT  IS  SIN! 


319 


everything  depends  upon  the  man  who  handles  the 
text.  Our  readers  are  certainly  acquainted  with 
that  most  enchanting  book  Hugh  Miller's  "  My 
Schools  and  Schoolmasters,"  and  they  will  probably 
remember  his  account  of  his  early  minister  and 
friend,  Alexander  Stewart,  of  Cromarty,  of  whom 
the  great  geologist  says,  "  How  could  such  a  man 
pass  from  earth  and  leave  no  trace  behind  him  ?  " 
and  to  him  he  applies  on  his  death  the  magnificent 
lines  of  the  poet, — 

"  A  mighty  spirit  was  eclipsed  ;  a  power 
Had  passed  from  day  to  darkness,  to  whose  hour 
Of  light  no  likeness  was  bequeathed, 
No  name." 

Even  Hugh  Miller  heard  Mr.  Stewart  preach  from 
the  same  subject  as  that  of  the  nausea-creating  text 
we  have  quoted  above.  "  He  drew  a  picture  of  the 
slaughtered  animal,  foul  with  dust  and  blood,  and 
streaming  in  its  impurity  to  the  sun,  as  it  awaited 
the  consuming  fire  amid  the  uncleanness  of  the 
ashes  outside  the  camp,  a  vile  and  horrid  thing, 
which  no  one  could  see  without  experiencing  emo- 
tions of  disgust,  nor  touch  without  contracting 
defilement.  The  description,"  says  Hugh  Miller, 
"  appeared  too  painfully  vivid,  its  introduction  too 
little  in  accordance  with  just  taste,  but  the  master 
in  this  difficult  walk  knew  well  what  he  was  doing, 
*  and  thatl  he  said,  pointing  to  the  strongly  coloured 
picture  he  had  just  completed,  'and  that  is  siji  !' 
By  one  stroke  the  intended  effect  was  produced,  and 
the  rising  disgust  and  horror  transferred  from  the 
revolting  material   image  to  the  great    moral   evil." 


320       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 

This  is  fine,  but  it  is  only  the  great  masters  ahke  of 
analogy,  language,  and  emotion,  who  ought  to  dare 
to  attempt  to  deal  thus  with  these  delicate  and 
difficult  themes. 

We  are  speaking  of  texts,  and  of  their  varied 
mode  of  treatment.  Old  Matthew  Wilks  was  every 
way  an  oddity  in  our  English  pulpit  ;  he  was  one  of 
the  fathers  and  founders  of  our  London  Missionary 
Society ;  he  was  the  pastor  of  the  two  largest 
congregations  in  London  in  his  day  ;  he  suc- 
ceeded George  Whitefield  at  the  Tabernacles  of 
Moorfields  and  Tottenham  Court  Road  ;  but  he 
was  an  oddity.  He  was  a  most  eminently  respect- 
able man  and  minister,  but  none  the  less  an  oddity, 
and,  in  spite  of  his  eccentricities,  an  eminently  useful 
man,  and  a  very  powerful  and  popular  preacher  ; 
but  he  was  very  fond  of  taking  texts  of  one  word. 
We  remember  a  very  fair  illustration  of  his  style, 
in  a  text  of  this  sort,  from  John  :  "  Afterivards." 
He  began  by  deprecating  the  idea  that  he  had  taken 
the  text  for  the  purpose  of  showing  the  superior 
ability  of  the  preacher,  remarking  that  vanity  is 
hateful  in  any  place,  but  most  in  the  pulpit  ;  hateful 
in  any  person,  but  most  in  the  minister ;  hateful  in 
any  age,  but  most  in  grey  hairs  ;  and  then  followed 
a  set  of  very  natural  divisions.  First,  men  are  indis- 
posed to  give  up  sin  until  they  have  felt  the  power 
of  judgment,  as  the  Lord  said,  "  I  will  yet  bring  one 
more  plague  upon  Pharaoh,  and  afterwards  he  will 
let  you  go."  Second,  the  power  of  remorse,  as  in 
Esau.  "Afterwards,  when  he  would  have  inherited  the 
blessing,  there  was  found  no  place  for  repentance." 
Third,  as  furnishing  the  point  of  view  for  earthly 


NEW  VERSION  OF  PSALM  XX III.  321 

trouble.  "  No  affliction  seemeth  to  be  joyous,  but 
grievous,  but  afterzvards  it  yield eth  the  peaceable 
fruit,"  etc.,  etc.  Fourth,  suggesting  the  anticipations 
oi  heaven.  "Thou  shalt  guide  me  by  Thy  counsel 
and  afterward  receive  me  to  glory."  Fifth,  suggest- 
ing warning  to  impenitence.  "  After  death  the 
judgment."  A  very  brief  outline  of  a  very  impressive 
sermon,  illustrating  the  humour  of  the  preacher,  but 
vi^ith  a  practical  not  less  than  a  pithy  turn  which 
saves  it  from  the  appearance  of  being  founded  in 
mere  eccentricity. 

Some  preachers  will  be  too  fine,  and,  whatever  the 
genius  of  a  man  may  be,  finery  fairly  dissipates 
all  usefulness.  Dr.  Winter.  Hamilton  was  a  great 
man,  a  great  scholar,  a  great  essayist,  and  a  great 
preacher,  a  great  wit  and  humorist  too ;  but  he 
could  not  speak  simply,  and  one  who  translated 
the  twenty-third  Psalm  into  his  ordinary  style  of 
dialect,  scarcely  exaggerated.  Here  is  the  twenty- 
third  Psalm  as  he  would  have  rendered  it :  "Deity  is 
my  Pastor.  I  shall  not  be  indigent.  He  maketh  me 
to  recumb  on  the  verdant  lawn.  He  leadeth  me 
beside  the  unrippled  liquidities.  He  reinstalleth  my 
spirits,  and  conducteth  me  in  the  avenues  of  rectitude 
for  the  celebrity  of  His  appellations.  Unquestionably, 
though  I  perambulate  the  glen  of  the  umbrages  of 
the  sepulchral  dormitories,  I  will  not  be  perturbed 
by  appalling  catastrophes,  for  Thou  art  present;  Thy 
wand  and  Thy  crook  insinuate  delectation.  Thou 
spreadest  a  refection  before  me  in  the  midst  of 
inimical  scrutations.  Thou  perfumest  my  locks  with 
odoriferous  unguents;  my  chalice  exuberates.  Indubi- 
tably benignity  and  commiseration  shall  continue  all 

21 


2,22       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 

the  diuturnity  of  my  vitality,  and  I  will  eternise  my 
habitance  in  the  Pavilion  of  Deity  ! " 

Almost  too  bad,  some  readers  may  say,  to  satirize 
the  departed  worthy  thus,  but  we  shall  yet  have  to 
say  how  we  revere  his  memory,  and  the  satire,  if 
satire  it  be,  is  only  introduced  here  for  the  purpose 
of  saying  that  all  fine  and  far-fetched  words  quench 
live  coals. 

As  singular  an  appropriation  of  a  text  as  we  ever 
remember  to  have  met  with  was  made  by  an  obscure 
old  brother,  or  father  minister  of  ours,  in  a  little  sea- 
board village,  Seaford,  on  the  coast  of  Sussex,  upon 
the  occasion  of  its  remoteness  and  isolation  being 
invaded  by  a  railway  laid  in,  and  its  attendant  train 
rushing  through  its  street.  Our  old  friend  improved 
the  occasion  by  discoursing  from  Nahum  ii.  4  : 
"  Chariots  shall  rage  in  the  streets,  they  shall  jostle 
one  against  another  in  the  broad  ways,  they  shall 
seem  like  torches,  they  shall  run  like  lightnings." 

And  among  our  many  reminiscences  of  appropriate 
texts,  we  remember  one  especially.  When  we  were  a 
boy,  Trinity  Monday  in  Deptford  was  the  great  day 
of  the  Trinity  House  there — that  celebrated  old 
house  in  Church  Street,  known  as  Sayes  Court,  the 
house  of  John  Evelyn,  the  great  friend  of  Charles 
the  First  and  of  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor.  From  this 
house  it  was  the  custom,  on  this  day,  for  the  masters 
of  Trinity,  of  whom  the  Duke  of  Wellington  was  the 
head,  to  walk  to  our  old  parish  church  of  St. 
Nicholas,  to  listen  to  a  sermon.  Our  memory  goes 
back  to  this  particular  Monday,  when  the  masters 
emerged  from  Sayes  Court,  headed  by  the  Duke  of 
Wellington   and   his   brother-in-arms  Lord    Hill — - 


MELVILL  AND  THE  IRON  DUKE  323 

nephew  of  old  Rowland — in  plain  naval  uniform. 
It  is  a  pleasure  to  us  to  remember  that  we  trotted 
along  by  the  side  of  the  Iron  Duke,  our  head  and 
memory  full  of  Waterloo,  to  the  old  church,  where 
the  preacher  was  to  be  the  then  highly  celebrated 
Henry  Melvill,  the  Duke's  chaplain,  then  in  the 
full  fame  of  his  sonorous  and  trumpet-toned 
eloquence  ;  nor  are  we  likely  to  forget  how,  as  his 
rich  tones  rolled  out  his  text,  "  Let  him  that  is 
greatest  among  you  be  as  one  that  servcth,"  the  eyes 
of  the  whole  congregation  seemed  involuntarily  to 
turn  to  the  corner  of  the  old  square  pew  where  the 
victor  of  a  hundred  fields,  the  man  who  had  con- 
quered the  greatest  captain  of  any  age  and  restored 
a  generation  of  sovereigns  to  their  thrones,  sat,  still, 
quiet,  and  quite  unconscious,  apparently,  that  the 
glancing  of  that  crowd  of  eyes  implied  the  sense 
that,  humanly,  he  was  assuredly  the  greatest  there. 
But  we  must  say,  in  honour  of  the  distinguished 
preacher,  that  there  was  no  further  reference  to  the 
Duke  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  a  splendid  piece  of 
homage  to  the  dignity  of  lowly  service  ;  Melvill  was 
no  man  for  turning  the  pulpit,  like  Bossuet,  into  a 
vehicle  of  compliment  or  flattery. 

Even  good  preaching  must  not,  if  usefulness  and 
impression  on  the  audience  be  intended,  be  too  much 
in  one  strain.  The  differing  characters  and  vary- 
ing moods  of  men  must  be  regarded.  Take  even 
the  grandest  oratorio  ;  would  thousands  be  interested 
night  after  night  with  the  declamation  of  a  long 
succession  of  recitatives  }  the  wise  musician  knows 
ibetter  than  that,  and  he  breaks  his  great  piece  into 
fnany  parts,  varying  airs  and  tones.     The  art  of  the 


324       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS   OF  DISCOURSE. 

pulpit  is  neither  the  art  of  the  essayist,  nor  of  the 
logician,  nor  of  the  poet,  nor  of  the  philosopher,  but 
an  art  very  much  its  own,  and  it  may  be  a  combina- 
tion of  all  these,  an  art  in  which  manifold  know- 
ledge should  be  laid  under  contribution  to  meet  in 
one  discourse  manifold  character ;  and,  perhaps, 
then  the  preacher  might  think  of  Cicero's  famous 
note  of  despair,  "  And  who  then  can  be  an  orator  ? " 
And  such  despair  is  much  more  hopeful,  and  from 
it  much  more  may  be  expected  than  from  that 
which  is,  we  fear,  the  more  general  sense,  that  every- 
body may  be  an  orator,  that  anybody  may  preach  ! 
An  audience  is  not  one  being  ;  every  hearer  has  a 
peculiarity,  and  this  fact  should  be  recognised.  If  we 
draw  an  illustration  from  the  drama,  its  breadth  of 
life  is  one  source  of  its  peculiar  power  ;  everything 
is  there,  eloquence  is  there,  and  wit  and  humour  are 
there,  and  strokes  of  pathos  and  feeling  are  there, 
and  the  picture  and  the  music  are  there,  and  these 
are  all  human.  The  preacher  should  take  his 
audience  into  his  confidence,  should  employ  his 
audience  as  the  harpist  employs  the  strings,  as  the 
pianist  or  the  organist  employs  the  keys  ;  it  is  not 
all  in  the  organist — he  cannot  do  without  the  organ  ; 
or  the  harpist — he  cannot  do  without  the  strings  ; 
part  is  his,  and  part  is  theirs  ;  the  wise  player  knows 
the  touch,  and  there  is  wisdom  in  him  perhaps 
deeper  than  his  knowledge.  All  speech  for  a  special 
work,  or  to  have  any  special  interest  for  men,  must 
have  its  own  accent,  an  accent  which,  if  it  be  the 
speaker's  own,  makes  itself  intelligible  in  that  it  wins 
its  way  to  the  knowledge  and  apprehension  of  the 
hearer.     For   accent    is    the   soul ;  almost,  we   will 


SHAFTS  OF  FIRE  v.   DROPS  OF  DEW.        325 

dare  to  say,  where  there  is  no  accent  there  is  no 
soul,  no  individuality  ;  just  as  has  been  often  said, 
the  style  is  the  man,  so,  with  more  .truth  still,  the 
accent  is  the  man,  it  is  his  own  mode  of  expression, 
his  own  level  of  speech.  Every  one  who  feels  for 
himself  has  that  which  differs  from  another  ;  how 
different  are  real  words,  real  prayers,  but  the  accent 
is  true.  Some  tongues  are  as  if  tipped  with  shafts 
of  fire,  and  from  some  the  doctrine  distils  as  the 
dew ;  some  words  swell  as  with  wild,  vehement 
passion,  and  some  flow  like  Dorian  music.  How 
different  are  the  hymns  of  Hannah  and  the  hymn 
of  Habakkuk  ;  the  hymn  of  Deborah  and  the  hymn 
of  Mary,  the  mother  of  our  Lord  ;  the  accent  of 
Isaiah  and  that  of  Jeremiah  ;  the  accent  of  Paul  and 
that  of  John  !  But  they  are  all  real  ;  every  real 
nature  has  its  own  accent,  and  the  art  of  the  certain 
sound,  the  art,  the  whole  art  of  discriminative 
preaching  may  be  defined  as  the  art  of  accent.  A 
serious  man,  aware  that  he  has  to  preach,  with  a 
really  earnest  purpose,  and  looking  out  upon,  it 
may  be,  a  thousand  persons  before  him,  and  de- 
sirous of  rightly  dividing  the  Word  of  God,  giving 
to  every  one  his  portion  of  meat  in  due  season,  upon 
him  comes  something  like  that  question  which  the 
disciples  put  to  our  Lord  when  He  said,  "  Give  ye 
them  to  eat,"  and  they  replied,  "  From  whence  can 
a  man  satisfy  these  men  with  bread  here  in  this 
wilderness  t "  Happy  is  the  man  who  has  so 
entered  into  the  Divine  secret  that  he  is  able  to  be 
the  true  minister  of  the  great  Bread-giver. 

"  Full  soon  celestially  fed, 

Their  rustic  fare  they  take ; 


326       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 

*Twas  springtide  when  He  blest  the  bread, 
'Twas  harvest  when  He  brake." 

Ah !    that   quiet    manner — is    not   this    much    in 
oratory  ?     Noisy  braggarts  do    but  display  usually 
their    own     heartlessness    and     ignorance,    and    all 
oratory   may   be   said    to  be   worthless  in  the  very 
degree  in  which  it  is  thus  noisy.     "  A  minister,  on 
being    asked    why    he    preached     less    loudly    than 
formerly,  replied  that  he  used  to  think  it  was  the 
thunder  that   did   the   execution,   but   that   he  had 
discovered   it  was    the    lightning."      How    well    we 
remember  one  of  these  quiet  masters,  James  Parsons, 
the  man  of  York,  merely  regarded   as  an  orator,  if 
not  the  greatest,  certainly  the  most  impressive  pulpit 
orator  we  have  ever  known.      Listening  to  him,  the 
irresistible  force  of  an  exceedingly  quiet  power  crept 
over  one,  through  one  ;  we  felt  the  words  tingling 
along   the  blood  ;   it  was  as    if  dim  spectral   forms 
hovered  before  the  eyes,  and  still  the  magnetic  stream 
rims  on.      You  suspend  your  breath  in  fixed  feeling  ; 
not  a  word  must  be  lost,  for  that  might  be  t/ie  word  ; 
you    are    passive  before    the    magnetist ;   your    eye 
dilated  to  catch  the  vision  rising  before  the  spirit ; 
you  feel  that  the  preacher's  eye  is  on  you ;  it  fascinates 
you;  you  cannot  release  yourself  from  it,  you  would 
not  if  you  could,  and  still  the  magnetic  stream  runs 
on.     You  surrender  yourself  to  the  dominion  of  your 
master  ;    he   clasps  you    in    the   slumber  of  genius, 
and    now   you  are    clairvoyant.      It    is    the   day  of 
the    final   judgment  !  you    see,   or    seem    to    see,   a 
million  snaky  fires  piercing  through  the  windows  of 
the  old  church  ;  fold  above  fold,  they  coil  in   spiral 
press  ;   the   roof  of  the  temple  is  rent ;  the  whole 


THE  MAGNETIC  STREAM.  327 

infinite  is  stretched  before  you  ;  each  word  from  the 
preacher  adds  something  to  the  terror  of  the  impres- 
sion, for  still  the  jnagnetic  stream  runs  on.  He  has 
launched  you  upon  a  sea  of  fire ;  each  word  is 
arrowy,  sharp-pointed,  like  live  lightning.  You  feel 
that  you  are  drifting  bn  to  some  dreadful  bourn, 
which  yet  you  do  not  see  ;  at  length  one  word  falls 
upon  the  soul,  more  dreadful  than  a  clap  of  thunder, 
another,  another  !  at  those  words  you  are  whirled 
away,  as  in  some  dread  tempest,  through  the  fire- 
girt  mountains  ;  you  are  oppressed  by  a  sense  of 
horrid  darkness  and  most  painful  light,  struggling 
together ;  you  do  not  feel  that  you  are  in  the  world 
of  spirits,  and  that  spirits  are  about  you  ;  you  do 
not  feel  at  all,  you  do  not  think  at  all,  you  are  there  ; 
it  is  done,  the  award  is  fixed  ;  black,  desolate  shores 
lie  all  around,  black,  dread,  surging  seas,  covered 
with  the  wrecked  hulls  of  tempest-stricken  vessels — 
and  you  !  you  are  doomed  ;  you  are  too  agonised  to 
shriek  ;  the  suffocating  emotion  of  despair  is  too 
intense  to  permit  you  to  pray  ;  you  are  wrapped  in 
a  painful  sense  of  conscious  unconsciousness,  from 
which  you  are  roused,  to  your  boundless  gratitude 
and  joy,  by  the  ceasing  of  the  flow  of  the  magnetic 
stream.  Two  or  three  thousand  people  are  unani- 
mously coughing  to  confirm  you  in  the  half-belief 
that  you  are  on  earth,  and  in  the  pulpit  before  you, 
apparently  ignorant  that  he  has  said  anything 
remarkable,  the  preacher  is  collecting  his  electricity 
for  another  attack  upon   some  other  soul. 

Nor  thus    alone   that  quiet  manner  borne  along 
upon  those  quiet  waves  of  voice  ;  the  hearer  visited 
far  other    scenes,  was  the  subject  of  far  other  im- 


328       TEXTS  AND   TOPICS   OF  DISCOURSE. 

pressions.  The  imagination  of  the  preacher  found 
itself  peculiarly  at  home — as  what  imagination  does 
not  ? — in  the  scenery  of  terror  and  of  joy  ;  and  the 
voice  of  the  preacher,  it  must  be  said,  peculiarly 
adapted  itself  to  the  state  of  introvision  in  the  mind 
of  the  hearer.  It  much  resembled,  not  only  in 
itself,  but  in  its  influences,  the  murmur  and  the 
music  of  mystical  and  unseen  mountain  torrents, 
and  gradually  you  see  word  after  word  has  unlocked 
a  vista  ;  the  manner  of  the  preacher  was  rapid,  but 
every  word,  every  pictorial  word  was  distinct,  not  only 
in  its  enunciation,  but  in  its  varying  accent.  Hark  ! 
the  preacher  is  talking  to  you  of  heaven.  He  takes 
you  by  th^  hand,  and  leads  you  thither.  He  utterly 
disclaims  any  assistance  from  the  painter.  He  tells 
you  that  he  will  not  have  it  that  you  shall  derive  your 
light  from  the  canvas  of  Marvin  or  of  Claude,  or  from 
the  melody  of  Mozart  or  Handel,  or  the  wildering 
pomp  of  Spenser  or  Milton  ;  yet  he  pours  around 
you,  affluently,  the  ideas  and  conceptions  drawn 
from  their  notes,  colours,  and  visions  ;  the  rippling 
waves  of  voice,  like  a  stream,  have  conducted  you 
thither.  Had  they  been  loud  or  boisterous,  you 
could  have  defied  them  ;  as  it  was,  they  hurried  you 
along  to  a  quiet  cloudland  ;  the  lamps  of  the  chapel 
glimmered  and  shone,  like  thrones.  Through  the 
blue  deeps  all  impalpable,  the  haze  of  a  golden  light 
fell  over  you  ;  you  caught  the  distant  warbling  of 
hymns,  and  discerned,  far  off  among  hills  of  emerald 
and  sapphire,  the  sea  of  gleaming  glass.  Winding 
your  way  still  onward  by  the  notes  of  the  wave, 
you  struck  a  path  upward,  'lo  the  clefts  and  heights 
of  the  tall  Delectable  Mountains.     Angels    crossed 


JAMES  PARSONS.  329 

your  pathway ;  a  strange  eflulgence  rested  still 
above  the  awe  of  a  sweet,  assured,  benignant  pre- 
sence all  around,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Come  on  ! 
Come  up  !  "  the  restless  fronts  of  far-off  buildings 
seemed  to  touch  stars,  which,  as  you  looked,  became 
angels  too  ;  a  city  shone  in  the  distance,  but  with 
no  gleaming  battlement  nor  turret ;  and  still  the 
rippling  stream  murmured  us  on.  And  now  we  neared 
heaven  ;  floods  of  harmony  saluted  us  ;  it  was  the 
land  of  Beulah,  it  was  our  Fatherland  ;  and  now 
the  lightnings  in  the  Voice  cleft,  as  it  were,  in  twain 
the  marble  fortresses,  and  it  stood  revealed  to 
us  ;  the  spirit  sank  suffused,  overwhelmed  with  the 
glory  and  the  grandeur  ;  a  coolness  fell  upon  the 
soul  ;  it  was  the  shadow  of  the  Tree  of  Life  beneath 
which  we  were  sitting  ;  we  arose,  and  found  that  we 
were  within  the  gates  of  the  chrysolite  and  the 
pearl,  beyond  the  marble  hall,  and  the  alabaster 
court,  with  the  fountain  of  the  water  of  life  flashing 
before  us,  and  scattering  upon  us  its  blessed  spray  ; 
and  still  the  ripple  had  not  ceased  of  our  own  wave 
which  had  guided  us  thither.  We  heard  it  calling 
us  still  ;  and  now  it  sang,  as  it  sported  along,  of 
deathless  destinies,  of  the  tides  of  future  being,  of  the 
calm  fields  in  the  distance,  of  thrones  unattained  and 
unseen,  and  it  seemed  in  itself  as  if  in  its  own  infinite 
world  ;  and  we  awoke,  to  find  ourselves  where  we  were, 
not,  it  seemed,  so  much  because  the  wave  had  ceased 
playing,  but  because  we  had  ceased  to  hear  it  in  the 
far-off  solitudes  of  heaven, to  which  it  had  conducted  us. 
We  merely  relate  our  own  experience  ;  such  was, 
beyond  all  question,  the  teaching  of  James  Parsons 
as  we  heard   it  from   thirty-five   to   forty-five   years 


330       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 

since.  That  was  a  live  coal !  That  was  a  tongue  of 
fire  !  That  pulpit  was  a  throne  of  eloquence  !  Can 
it  be  wondered  at  that  we  place  the  achievements  of 
the  pulpit  by  the  side  of  the  noblest  efforts  of  the 
fine  arts,  the  noblest  powers  of  painting,  statuary, 
architecture,  and  song,  when  we  remember  what 
we  have  felt  beneath  the  witchery  of  its  great  en- 
chantments, or  that  we  are  prepared  to  believe, 
and  do  easily  believe  the  traditions  and  legends  of 
the  overmastering  effects  of  eloquence  from  the 
lips  of  the  mighty  men  many  of  whose  names  have 
passed  before  us  in  these  pages  ?  We  shall  return 
more  at  length  to  James  Parsons,  and  attempt  to 
present  something  of  his  method  and  some  of  his 
glowing  words,  which,  however,  look  poor  beside 
their  spoken  power. 

The  power  of  a  preacher  greatly  depends  upon 
constantly  keeping  himself  and  his  audience  in  the 
presence  of  essential  truths.  The  business  of  a 
preacher  is  certainly  with  the  mind,  to  instruct  it  ; 
but  his  most  essential  business  is  with  the  soul,  to 
fertilize  it.  The  mind  is  dependent  upon  faculties 
and  organs.  The  soul  has  a  knowledge  which  it 
never  learned,  instincts  which  are  independent  of 
faculties  and  organs,  the  sense  of  God,  the  sense  of 
infinity,  the  sense  of  immortality,  the  sense  and 
sentiment  of  the  beautiful,  the  moral  sense ;  all 
these  are  strong  primeval  instincts  common  to  the 
soul  of  man.  Properly  they  do  not  belong  to  the 
intellect  or  the  mind  ;  but  it  is  upon  the  soul  the 
preacher  is  especially  to  work.  These  faculties  may 
be  darkened.  Cannot  the  mists  of  the  earth  obscure 
the  light  of  the  sun  "i     But  they  constitute  in  man 


INFLUENCE  OVER   THE  SOUL.  331 


the  region  of  the  higher  law.  If  these  essential 
truths  be  not  seen  and  firmly  held,  if  the  preacher 
think  it  his  chief  business  to  deal,  with  facts,  to 
argue,  merely  to  store  the  memory,  "  those  that  look 
out  of  the  windows "  will  be  "  darkened,"  and  he 
will  permit  the  most  influential  power  over  character 
which  he  possesses,  the  staff  or  sceptre  of  wisdom, 
to  drop  from  his  grasp.  The  things  we  are  saying 
seem  so  obvious  to  us  that  we  do  greatly  wonder 
how  they  can  ever  be,  or  have  been,  a  matter  of 
doubt.  What  has  projected  the  mind  of  man,  in 
any  age,  to  a  remote  discovery  }  The  soul,  the  seat 
of  imagination,  which  has  first  dreamed,  and  sur- 
mised, and  used  its  own  immediate  vision,  and  then 
called  on  the  mind,  with  its  judgment,  and  the  hand, 
by  its  material  presence,  to  give  effect  and  person- 
ality to  the  vision.  Oh !  beyond  everything,  the 
preacher  should  be  aware  of,  and  seek  to  obtain  a 
healthy  influence  over  the  soitl. 

What  a  power,  for  instance  in  human  nature,  is 
this  element  we  call  conscience  ! 

Whom  do  we  count  the  worst  man  upon  earth  .-' 

*'  Be  sure  he  knows  in  his  conscience  more 
Of  what  right  is,  than  arrives  at  birth, 
In  the  best  man's  acts  that  we  bow  before ; 
This  last  knows  better,  true,  but  the  fact  is, 
'Tis  one  thing  to  know,  and  another  to  practise  ; 
And  thence  I  conclude  that  the  real  God-function 
Is  to  furnish  a  motive  of  injunction 
For  practising  what  we  know  already." 

Some  of  the  most  illustrious  and  munificent 
monuments  of  human  genius  and  industry  have 
been    called   into    existence   by   the    dark    enchant- 


^2,2       TEXTS  AND  TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 


ments  of  conscience.  Some  time  since,  in  Italy,  we 
found  ourselves  traversing  the  aisles,  the  cloisters,  of 
one  of  the  most  amazing,  some  say  the  most  magni- 
ficent, receptacle  of  monastic  art  in  Europe,  although, 
being  somewhat  out  of  the  way,  missed  by  and 
unknown  to  most  travellers.  It  is  still  a  wonderful 
monument  of  artistic  beauty,  although  it  has  stood 
in  a  vast  Italian  desert  for  four  hundred  years.  Its 
vast  loneliness  calls  to  the  mind  of  the  visitor  the 
descriptions  of  the  Alhambra.  It  is  a  wonderful 
museum  of  paintings  by  the  mighty  masters,  of 
sculpture,  of  mosaics,  of  basreliefs,  and  marbles  ; 
of  carvings  in  wood,  and  altars  inlaid  with  precious 
stones  ;  of  lofty  bronze  gates,  so  elaborate  as  to 
constitute  them  beautiful  wonders  in  the  history  of 
art.  Its  magnificent  refectory  is  probably  surpassed 
by  few  halls  in  Europe.  A  truly  magnificent  pile, 
with  its  statues  and  turrets,  its  sacristries  and 
lavatories ;  a  strange  and  stately  fabric,  almost 
unknown  to  the  tides  of  travellers  pouring  through 
Italy  ;  it  stands  like  a  monastic  Tadmor  of  the 
wilderness,  or  Palmyra  of  the  desert.  How  came 
it  there .?  what  reared  it  there,  in  that  wild  plain 
between  Milan  and  Pavia  .^  It  represents  the  worth 
of  millions  of  English  pounds.  What  freak  of 
gloomy  wealth  caused  this  mighty  marble  palace, 
this  beautiful  hall  of  penitence  to  rise  from  the  dusty 
wilderness  "i 

It  was  conscience,  conscience  set  on  fire  by  fear. 
An  Italian  nobleman,  a  count,  had  committed 
murder ;  he  had  murdered  an  innocent  wife  in  a 
fit  of  jealousy ;  he  had  murdered  her  father  and 
her  brother.     He   was  above  all  law,  but  the  time 


A   RIVAL    OF  THE  ALHAMBRA.  333 

came  when    he  became  subject  to   another,   and  a 
subtle   law.      He  became  very  much  frightened   at 
what  he  had  done.      He  was  uncertain  "  how  soon 
or  which   way  his   great   spirit    might    go,"   but    he 
feared    a   very    bad    way.      His   victims    seemed    to 
scare  him  ;  they  stood  round  his  bed    like  terrible 
avenging  furies.      He  wished  to  expiate  his  crimes, 
and   this   was   the    mode    in   which    his    conscience  ■ 
sought    for   peace ;     he    tried     thus     to    chase    the 
dreadful    remembrance   from    his    soul.      It  is    said 
to   have   cost  him   two  millions   of  pounds,  of  the 
money  of  that  day,  to  rear  and  to  endow  this  ark 
of  refuge  for  his  troubled  spirit.      Whether  he  found 
peace  after  this  enormous  outlay  we  do  not  know, 
doubtful  we  should  think,  but  it  assuredly  illustrates, 
as    many  another  inferior    instance   illustrates,  that 
this  conscience  is  a  tremendous  and  potent  reality 
in  human    nature.      Like  the  other  senses  in   man, 
it  also  may  be  dosed  and  drowned  with   narcotics 
and    the  somnolent    nepenthe,  but    it   starts    up   in 
wild    affright,   and    takes  a  fearful   revenge    at   last. 
Now    this    faculty    of   conscience,    in    spite    of   all 
the    casuistries   and   sophistries    which  have  sought 
satisfactorily  to  dispose  of  it  through  all  ages,  has 
made  its   presence  and   its   power  felt  in   man   as  a 
disturbing  medium.      It  seems  certain  that  many  are 
altogether  unaware  of    it ;    they  are   "  past  feeling, 
given  over  "  ;  but  it  is  equally  certain  that  many  in- 
numerable millions  have,  through  all  ages,  felt  that 
conscience,  which  we  may  define  to  be  the  unhealthy 
and    unhappy  knowledge  the  soul  has  of  itself,  is, 
in  a  marvellous  and  quite  ineffable  manner,  met  by 
that   new   life   in   the    Christian    system    the   life    of 


334       TEXTS   AND   TOPICS  OF  DISCOURSE. 

Christ,  the  real  life,  which  it  is  the  business  of  the 
able  minister  of  the  New  Testament  to  expound, 
unveil,  and   apply. 

How  difficult  a  work  it  is  to  deal  with  this  con- 
science !  Far  are  we  from  saying  that  here  preachers 
have  always  been  wise  physicians  ;  on  the  contrary, 
and  often,  how  unwise  !  It  is  true  that  every  mind, 
as  John  Foster  has  said,  has  an  interior  apartment 
of  its  own,  into  which  none  but  itself  and  God  can 
enter ;  the  preacher  cannot  enter,  but  he  can  dart 
strange  rays  which  stream  through  the  windows  of 
the  apartment,  and  by  the  light  of  which  even  the 
possessor  becomes  aware  of  the  secrets  of  the  chamber, 
hitherto  unsuspected  by  himself,  perhaps  leading 
him  to  exclaim,  "  Thou  settest  mine  iniquities  before 
me,  my  secret  sins  in  the  light  of  Thy  countenance," 
for  there,  in  that  interior  apartment,  in  solitary  state, 
sits  conscience,  surrounded  by  judicial  terrors.  It 
is  possible  to  vex,  to  irritate,  even  to  appal  con- 
science herself  in  a  most  unhealthy  manner,  and 
many  ministers  and  teachers  most  unwisely  do  this, 
and  raise  a  terror  they  cannot  allay  ;  overstrained, 
exaggerated  statements  and  unrealized  sentiments, 
made  to  dart  from  the  speaker's  imagination  like 
spectres  and  phantasms,  often  do  this.  In  a  word, 
conscience  is  so  tremendous  a  power  in  man  that 
it  needs  a  most  delicate  touch,  and  it  is  worthy  of 
a  diagnosis  and  study  so  as  to  enable  a  teacher 
healthfully  to  vitalise  it,  while  withholding  the  hand 
from  lacerating  it  with  perhaps  incurable  wounds. 

And  here,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  said 
those  are  cold  and  depressing  views  of  human 
nature  which    the  modern   analytic   philosophy  has 


"TO   GOD  BELONGS  THE  RETURN"        335 

shed  abroad  ;  the  same  deathly  views  have  pene- 
trated the  study  of  the  minister  and  the  pulpit  of 
the  church,  and  we  must  say  all  power  fades  from 
the  pulpit  if  the  new  metaphysics,  concerning  the 
nature  of  man  and  the  inspired  truths  of  the  Chris- 
tian system,  are  permitted  to  obtain  a  hold  on  the 
mind,  and  the  ancient  verities  to  fall  from  the  grasp 
of  the  preacher's  thought  ;  it  ought  not  to  be  difficult 
to  dismiss  the  depersonalizing  ideas  of  modern 
metaphysics,  even  with  contempt,  from  the  under- 
standing. 

It  is  everything  to  feel,  to  know ;  the  minister 
who  would  be  effective  must  know,  that  the  human 
life  will  not  be  placed  on  a  physical  basis,  that  it 
essentially  descends  from  highest  to  lowest,  and  "  to 
God,"  as  the  old  Arabic  proverb  says,  "  belongs  the 
return "  ;  the  body  cannot  look  after  the  mind,  it 
cannot  even  look  after  itself,  but  the  mind  looks 
after  both,  and  the  soul  looks  after  the  mind  ;  there 
cannot  be  health  of  body  without  health  of  mind, 
nor  health  of  mind  without  the  health  of  the  soul, 
the  sense  of  duty  and  love  of  truth. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THE  HEALTHFUL  DIVINE— ALEXANDER 
WA  UGH. 

THE  name  of  Alexander  Waugh  is  one  to  which 
few  living  memories  can  turn  back.  Con- 
siderably more  than  half  a  century  has  passed 
away  since  he  went  to  his  rest,  but  a  dim,  indistinct, 
and  hazy  sight  we  still  have  of  him ;  and  the  memory 
of  the  fervid  lamentations  amidst  which  he  was 
borne  to  his  grave,  the  charm  which  seems  to 
surround  his  name  whenever  it  is  mentioned,  and 
the  evident  unction  and  graciousness  which  united, 
and  gave  sweetness,  strength,  and  majesty  to  all 
his  manifold  gifts,  compel  us  to  recur  to  him.  We 
have  talked  with  men,  wise  men,  able  men,  who  have 
said  to  us,  they  would  rather  resemble  Alexander 
Waugh  than  any  other  minister  of  whom  they  had 
ever  heard  or  known.  Some  such  impression  is  on 
our  own  mind  too.  Mighty  as  an  orator,  his  whole 
life  was  so  suffused  in  a  halo  of  such  enviable 
goodness,  such  thoroughly  human  beauty,  that  he 
suggests  to  us,  certainly,  the  highly  desirable,  with  this 
attribute,  however,  that  he  is  almost  the  inimitable. 
It  is  not  a  very  easy  thing,  without  a  pair  of 
compasses,  to  describe  a  circle  ;  and  some  characters 


AN  OLD   WORLD  DIVINE.  337 

seem  to  leave  imitations  just  as  far  behind  as  most 
such  unskilled  attempts. 

Born  in  Scotland,  in  1754,  settled  as  a  pastor 
over  a  united  Presbyterian  Church  in  London  in 
1782,  for  forty-six  years  he  was  a  man  of  very 
considerable  mark  in  the  metropolis.  The  pulpit  of 
the  Church  of  Christ  has  very  many  varieties  of 
excellence  and  honoured  eminence,  but  we  scarcely 
know  where  to  find  the  exact  likeness  to  Alexander 
Waugh.  He  commanded  a  very  large  circle  of 
influence  ;  his  powers  of  eloquence  were  great,  but 
all  the  traditions  of  him  seem  to  point  to  his  spirit ; 
to  the  majestic  lovableness  of  his  nature,  the  clear, 
bright  common-sense,  mellowed  and  made  tender 
by  the  play  and  sprightliness  of  a  soul  which  could 
"  rejoice  with  those  who  rejoiced,"  and  "  weep  with 
those  who  wept,"  and  never  cross  the  boundary 
line  of  truth  or  consistency,  however  ready  with 
the  sallies  of  wit  or  the  gaieties  of  humour.  So 
changed  are  all  the  circumstances  of  the  Church,  so 
changed  is  the  structure  of  the  ministerial  mind, 
that  a  man  like  Dr.  Waugh  looks  almost  as  remote 
as  an  old  knight  in  the  chivalry  of  the  middle  ages  ; 
we  seem  to  build  up  the  man  into  the  minister 
upon  a  different  principle  of  mental  architecture 
now,  but  it  may  be  questioned  if  the  method  be 
better.  Alexander  Waugh  came  of  a  stock  of 
farmers  from  Berwickshire ;  his  early  days  were 
passed,  literally  and  exactly,  in  such  scenes  as  those 
described  in  the  "  Cottar's  Saturday  Night "  ;  he 
came  from  an  old  upland  farm,  amongst  the  wild 
heaths,  moss  haggs,  and  grey  old  stones  of  wild 
Scotland,  and  he  never  forgot  it ;  and  the  old  scenes 

22 


338  ALEXANDER    WAUGH. 

of    his    boyhood    gave    pathos    and    the    charm    of 
descriptive   power  to  his   eloquence,   not  only  very 
effective    over    a    general    audience,    but    especially 
captivating   to   the    Scotchman    who   found    himself 
translated  from  his  mountain  heaths  and  moors  to 
the  more  monotonous  streets  of  London.     From  his 
father's   simple    farm    he    went    away    to    grammar 
schools  and  colleges  ;  and,  before  his  separation  for 
the  ministry,  some  ten  years  had  been  passed  in  a 
thorough  course  of  real  preparation — his  theological 
preparation   under  the  direction  of  the  well-known 
John    Brown,   of  Haddington.     He   had    been   well 
drilled   in  his  "  Humanities "  ;  he  stepped    into  the 
ministry,  his  mind   nimble  and  alert  in   Latin  lore, 
and  in  the  ready  handling  of  his  Greek  Testament. 
How  is  it  that  Scotch  ministers  often  strike  us 
as    so    much    more   thoroughly   furnished    than   the 
average  English  minister  }     The  education  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  hurried,  does  not  give  the  idea 
of    having    crammed    for    a    degree  ;     that    early 
habituation  to,  and   familiarity  with,  Latin,  what  a 
clearness    and    copiousness,    and    yet    what   a   con- 
densation, it  seems  to  give  to  a  style !     The  men 
who  have  lived  and  breathed  in  scholarly  airs  seem 
to   have   something  imparted   to  them  which  never 
forsakes    them.       Learned    dunces    of   course    grow 
everywhere ;  but   where   there   is   a   mind   to    make 
the  culture   its   own,   how  strong   it  becomes   upon 
such    nurture.      Perhaps  the  man's  engagements    in 
life  compel  him  to  leave  it  all  behind  him,   either 
for  business  or  recreation  ;  but  it  has  given  a  mode 
and  fashion  of  strength  and  clearness  to  his  speech 
which    abides  ;    it    imparts   a   tone    and    a   peculiar 


HIS    WELL-FURNISHED   MIND.  339 

aroma  to  his  style ;  so  it  was  with  Alexander 
Waugh.  And  with  what  pleasure  the  ear  catches 
some  old  familiar  Latin  passage,  some  happy  applica- 
tion of  a  well-known  line,  to  translate  which  would 
be  to  rob  it  of  its  richness,  even  of  its  pith  and 
point !  So  was  the  man  equipped  for  his  work. 
The  scholarship  of  our  ministers  often  seems  slip- 
shod ;  you  shall  find  that  they  have  read  a  book 
of  Livy,  or  some  pages  of  Thucydides,  or  some 
single  oration  of  Demosthenes  ;  but  they  know 
nothing  of  the  volumes  of  the  author — they  have 
never  read  them  so  as  to  make  themselves  in  a 
manner  at  home  with  them  ;  and  the  reading  in 
other  departments  is  often  like  this.  The  modern 
student  is  left  very  much  to  make  himself:  he  takes 
his  own  favourite  theory,  his  own  favourite  author 
and  master  of  speculations  ;  there  is  not  the  careful 
going  down  to  the  depths  and  going  all  round  the 
subject ;  and  so  he  steps,  very  frequently,  into  the 
world,  and  before  his  audiences,  and  into  society,  a 
loose-jointed  and  really  unfurnished  man. 

Alexander  Waugh  had  the  foundations  of  his 
character  and  great  influence  laid  in  a  very  different 
manner  ;  and  early  thoroughness  is  one  of  the  first 
things  that  strikes  us  as  belonging  to  him.  Before 
he  began  to  preach,  years  had  been  given  to  him 
to  learn.  There  was  no  doubt  a  depth  of  nature 
in  the  man  himself — passionately  fond  of  nature — 
rising  early  to  walk  far,  to  drink  in  the  healthful 
breeze  of  moorlands,  the  music  of  resounding 
cataracts  and  waterfalls,  and  the  sublimity  of  crags 
re-echoing  to  the  roar  of  torrents  ;  with  this  that 
which  seems  very  essential  to  the  making  a  hunTiane 


340  ALEXANDER    WAUGH. 

man  in  after-life — a  love  of  fun  as  a  youth,  a 
cheerful,  buoyant,  overflowing  nature. 

There  is  too  much  of  the  chance  entrance  upon 
the  ministry  ;  and  many  young  men  come  amongst 
their  fellows  as  instructors  like  ragged  colts  or 
rough  Shetland  ponies  ;  and  such  may  be  not  un- 
useful.  But,  to  take  a  place  among  men,  to  have 
acquired  habits  of  obedience  and  discipline,  in  virtue 
of  which  alone  a  man  can  govern  other  men,  to 
have  acquired  habits  of  scholarship  and  behaviour 
which  give  the  repose,  the  reserve,  and  the  urbanity 
of  a  gentleman — these  are  not  attained  by  two  or 
three  years  spent  in  an  academy  after  a  rude 
apprenticeship  in  business.  And  the  superior  respect 
which  a  Scotch  minister  usually  commands  arises 
from  the  fact  that  he  has  usually  had  his  long 
course  of  training,  and  comes  before  men  with  strong 
and  highly  accredited  credentials  ;  and  Alexander 
Waugh  was  an  illustration  of  all  this,  and  the 
value  of  this. 

As  a  preacher,  very  opposite  critics  gave  to  Dr. 
Waugh  their  highest  appreciation.  William  Jay 
said  of  him  :  "  All  our  young  ministers  and  candi- 
dates for  the  ministry  ought  to  hear  Waugh  ;  use  all 
your  influence  to  induce  them  to  do  so."  Robert 
Hall  heard  him,  and  declared  the  sermon  the  most 
brilliant  he  had  ever  listened  to.  "  I  never,"  con- 
tinued he,  "  heard  a  discourse  containing  so  many 
brilliant  and  beautiful  things."  A  friend  remarked, 
that  he  had  heard  of  the  sermon  having  been 
preached  somewhere  in  Scotland.  Mr.  Hall  replied: 
"  I  doubt  not  that  it  has  travelled  in  the  greatness 
of  its  s<-rength  "  ;  and  then  he  continued  to  speak  of 


A    GENUINE  SCOTCHMAN.  341 

it  as  "distinguished,  not  by  its  continuity  of  thought, 
or  by  a  chain  of  reasoning,  but  by  the  splendour  of 
its  thought  and  the  exuberance  of-  its  imagery." 
And  this  does  very  greatly  describe  the  general 
character  of  his  ministrations.  His  appearance  was 
always  commanding  ;  he  had  a  presence  of  great 
natural  dignity.  As  middle  life  and  age  came  on, 
his  dignity  became  richly  venerable  ;  abounding  in 
natural  images,  he  used  them  with  exceeding  taste 
and  delicacy.  Although  a  Lowlander  himself,  he 
was  intensely  national,  and  had  something  of  the 
grandeur  of  a  Highland  chieftain.  His  preaching 
was  coloured  by  all  the  scenery  of  his  native  land — 
torrents,  lakes,  craggy  cliffs,  and  heaths  ;  it  was  like 
visiting  Scotland,  or  as  if  the  Scotchman  returned  to 
the  land  of  his  birth,  to  hear  him  preach.  It  was 
said  that  he  made  of  importance  the  little  hill  or 
brae,  the  silent  rock,  or  the  bosky  burn,  which 
furnished  such  sweet  and  tender  reminiscences  to 
many  a  poor  man  or  woman  whose  childhood  had 
been  passed  amidst  such  scenes  ;  he  drew  forth  their 
beauties  by  his  picturesque  sketches.  Frequently 
alive  in  the  scenery  of  Ben  Lomond,  Ben  Nevis, 
Glen  Garry,  the  Spey  or  the  Tay  ;  calling  up  the 
pastoral  recollections  of  Teviot  Dale  or  Lammermuir, 
the  Cheviot  or  the  Pentland  Hills,  Mithdale  or 
Stitchelldale, — he  was  equally  alive  in  historical 
associations  :  in  the  field  of  Flodden,  or  the  feudal 
days  of  Percy  or  of  Douglas.  Often,  by  some 
tender  and  touching  allusion,  he  made  the  hearts  of 
his  auditors  to  beat  ;  and  he  kept  his  mind  thus 
awake  and  alive  by  his  intense  nationality.  His 
recreation  seems  to  have  been,  at  the  close  of  the 


342  ALEXANDER    WAUGH. 

day,  to  sit  with  his  family,  recalling  old  Scottish 
scenes  ;  and  every  book  referring  at  all  to  Scottish 
manners,  scenery,  or  character,  was  sure  to  find  its 
way  into  his  hands,  and,  during  the  winter  evenings, 
was  most  likely  read  aloud. 

When  he  noted  the  absence  of  any  of  his  people 
from  the  services  without  some  sufficient  cause,  or, 
perhaps,  was  reminded  of  the  distance  they  resided 
from  the  chapel  as  an  excuse,  he  would  often 
exclaim  :  "What  !  you  from  Scotland,  from  Melrose, 
from  Gala  Water,  from  Selkirk,  and  it's  a  hard  matter 
to  walk  a  mile  or  two  to  serve  your  Maker  one  day 
in  the  week !  How  many  miles  did  ye  walk  at 
Selkirk  ?  "  "  Five."  "  Five  !  and  can  ye  no'  walk 
two  here  ?  Man,  your  father  walked  ten  or  twall 
out  and  as  many  hame  every  Sunday  i'  the  year,  and 
yer  mither  too,  aften  :  I've  seen  a  hunder  folk  or 
mair,  and  they  walk  six  or  seven,  men  and  women 
and  bairns  too  ;  and  at  the  sacraments  folks  walk 
fifteen,  and  some  twenty,  miles.  How  far  will  ye 
walk  the  morn  to  make  half  a  crown  ?  Fie,  fie  !  Oh, 
my  man,  mind  the  bairns!  If  ye  love  their  souls,  dinna 
let  them  get  into  the  way  o'  biding  awa'  from  kirk." 

His  eye  was  always  animated  and  full  of  light ; 
he  was  at  home  in  preaching  on  the  strayed  sheep  ; 
then  came  forth  his  pastoral  remarks  on  hills  and 
dales,  bogs  and  marshes,  becks  and  shores,  and  how 
the  poor  wanderer,  though  it  should  be  hunted  by 
the  prowling  wolf  or  the  cunning  fox  ;  though  it 
should  wander  into  the  wildest  wastes  of  the  Lam- 
mermuir,  or  ascend  to  the  highest  summits  of  the 
Cheviot  Fells,  must  still  be  brought  back  by  the 
good  shepherd. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  HIS  PREACHING.    343 


Some  of  his  friends  characterized  his  preaching  as 
more  devotional  than  profound,  more  eloquent  than 
controversial,  and  more  energetic  than  critical  ;  but 
what  he   himself  said   of  some  other  preacher  not 
inaptly   describes    himself—"  He    has    so    much    of 
God  about  him,  that  he  runs  away  with  my  heart." 
There  was  nothing  fine  about  him  ;  a  sublime  and 
elevated  devotion  melted  down  all  insensibility  and 
scepticism  ;  he    was,   perhaps,    even   greater    in    the 
service  of  public  prayer  than  as  a  preacher,  and  was 
often    called    upon    to    take   the   part    of  prayer   in 
special  services.     The  characteristic  quality   of   his 
mind    was   sublimity,    mellowed   and  softened   by  a 
genial    humour.     In    the  services  of  devotion,    this 
sublimity  of  conception  and  expression  appeared  to 
reach  its  height  in^  ardour  and  reverence  ;  his  own 
feelings    seemed    to    be,    in     such    services,    readily 
moved  ;  the  big  tear  was  seen  to  trickle  down  his 
cheek,  while  some  emotion  of  lofty  adoration,  peni- 
tential    abasement,    believing     confidence,    or    filial 
gratitude  gave  fervour  and  fulness  to  his  expressions. 
Modes   of  expression  continued    in  the   memory  of 
hearers  long  years  after  they  were  uttered.     A  poor 
woman    tells  how  she  never    forgot    his  expression 
concerning  the  love  of  Christ.      "  It  is  deep,"  he  said, 
"  as  the  grave  in  which  He  lay,  high  as  the  heaven 
to  which  He  ascended,  ancient  as  eternity,  and  last- 
ing as  your  souls."     It  seemed  he  never  allowed  a 
sermon  to  pass  without  some  tender  allusion  or  illus- 
tration :  thus,   on    "  The    bruised  reed  He    will   not 
break"     "The    Good   Shepherd    mends,  not  breaks 
His  reeds  when  they  are   bruised.     I  have  seen  a 
Highland  shepherd,  on  a  sunny  brae,  piping  as  if  he 


344  ALEXANDER    WAUGH. 

could  never  grow  old,  his  flock  listening,  and  the 
rocks  ringing  around  him  ;  but  when  the  reed  of  his 
pipe  became  hoarse,  he  had  not  patience  to  mend  it, 
but  broke  it,  and  threw  it  away  in  anger,  and  made 
another.  Not  so  our  Shepherd  :  He  examines,  and 
tries,  and  mends,  and  tunes  the  bruised  spirit,  until 
it  sings  sweetly  of  mercy  and  judgment  as  in  the 
days  of  old."  Often,  too, — usually  in  every 
sermon, — he  compelled  to  his  service  a  grand  way 
of  speech,  as  when  he  exclaimed  :  "  Could  I  place 
the  prophet  Isaiah  at  the  base  of  one  of  the  loftiest 
of  the  eastern  mountains,  and  whilst  he  was  gazing 
on  its  varied  scenery,  were  an  earthquake  to  rock.it 
upon  its  deep  foundations,  until,  like  the  Numidian 
lion  shaking  the  dew-drops  from  his  mane  in  the 
morning,  it  threw  off  from  its  Jioary  and  heaving 
sides  the  forests,  and  flocks,  and  hamlets,  and  vine- 
yards ;  and  were  a  whirlwind  to  rush  in  at  that 
moment,  scattering  the  broken  and  falling  masses  in 
mid-air,  still  the  voice  of  the  prophet,  if  it  could  be 
heard  amidst  the  convulsions  of  nature,  would  ex- 
claim :  *  Though  the  everlasting  mountains  bow,  and 
the  perpetual  hills  be  scattered,  yet  will  I  rejoice  in 
the  Lord,  and  joy  in  the  God  of  my  salvation.'" 

The  following  is  a  pretty  illustration  of  the  Psalms 
of  David  ;  but  it  shows  how  he  was  wont  to  make 
his  sentiments  ring  with  some  national  word  : — 

"  David,  Asaph,  etc.,  having  put  down  the  sentiments 
contained  in  the  words  of  the  Psalms,  sent  them  to 
Jeduthun,  by  whom  they  were  adapted  to,  and  became 
constituent  parts  in,  the  worship  of  the  Jewish  Church.  As 
such,  our  Lord  and  His  apostles  acknowledged  them ;  and 
on  the  cross  our  Redeemer  began  one  of  them,  the  con- 


POWERFUL  AND  PATHETIC   WORDS.       345 

tinuing  of  which  His  sufferings  prevented.  All  other  songs 
fall  infinitely  beneath  these,  being  liable  to  mislead ;  but  in 
these  songs  there  is  no  fear  of  mistake  in  the  sentiments 
they  convey.  In  David's  songs  there  are  no  fetble  parts ; 
and  he  gives  credit  to  his  reader  for  perception  in  their 
perusal,  without  those  links  to  connect  the  different  parts 
which  moderns  find  it  needful  to  introduce.  His  mind 
catches  the  prominent  beauties  as  they  rise  before  him. 
Like  the  roebuck,  bounding  from  rock  to  rock,  regardless 
of  the  spaces  that  intervene,  many  of  those  sacred  songs 
contained  or  explained  the  history  of  their  country,  and 
recorded  the  deeds  of  their  ancestors ;  and  who  would  not 
be  fired  in  singing  the  deeds  of  Bannockburn,  of  Marston 
Moor,  or  Waterloo  ?  " 

He  gave  a  pretty,  powerful,  and  pathetic  turn  to 
his  words.  Thus,  sneaking  of  the  hope  of  a  heavenly 
inheritance  in  adverse  circumstances,  he  says  : 
"  Nobody  that  sees  that  poor  old  man,  just  come 
from  the  Isle  of  Patmos,  with  the  mark  of  the 
irons  on  his  withered  arms,  would  expect  that  he 
had  any  great  prospects  ;  yet  he  could  say,  *  Have 
fellozvship  with  us!'  'What!'  a  man  might  say, 
looking  at  the  mark  of  the  chain  upon  his  wrist, 
*  have  fellowship  with  you  !  What  profit  will  that 
be  .? '  *  Truly  our  fellowsJiip  is  tvith  the  Father  and 
His  Son  Jesus  Christ.  It  doth  not  then  indeed 
appear  what  he  should  be,  nor  will  the  world  give 
us  credit  for  our  pretensions." 

Such  are  the  broken  and  scattered  illustrations  of 
his  mode  of  speech ;  wise  words,  weighty  words, 
comfortable  words. 

But  what  about  the  place  or  power  of  Dr. 
Waugh  in  the  pulpit .?     We  know  it  was   eminent, 


346  ALEXANDER    WAUGH. 

although  it  was  a  day  when  sermons  were  neither 
systematically  pillaged,  stolen,  nor  published  by 
shorthand  writers,  nor  so  fastidiously  prepared  and 
printed  by  the  authors  themselves  as  now,  and  we 
believe  Dr.  Waugh  published  no  sermons  at  all. 
His  power  in  the  pulpit,  and  the  great  range  of  that 
loving  reputation  he  enjoyed,  arose  in  an  eminent 
degree  from  the  overflowing  kindness,  the  shrewd, 
cheerful,  tender  humanity  of  the  man.  It  has  been 
said  again  and  again  that  he  was  never  known  to 
speak  a  word  of  personal  detraction  ;  but  his  tongue 
was  always  ready  as  a  shield,  if  it  were  possible  to 
use  it  so.  Seated  amidst  his  elders,  in  his  vestry, 
one  evening,  a  stranger  came  to  make  inquiry  re- 
specting some  particular  point  in  the  character  of 
a  member  in  his  congregation  ;  to  the  extent  of  the 
inquiry  Dr.  Waugh  gave  a  true  and  most  satisfactory 
answer,  but  carefully  refrained  from  passing  any 
judgment  on  the  general  character.  On  the  inquirer 
retiring,  one  of  the  elders,  an  excellent  man,  cautioned 
him  in  these  terms :  "  You  know,  sir,  our  Doctor 
never  speaks  ill  o'  ony  man  ;  indeed,  I  verily  believe, 
if  Satan  himself  were  to  ask  him  for  a  night's 
lodging  on  a  cauld  night,  he  wouldna  refuse  him." 
Dr.  Waugh  cast  a  mildly  rebuking  look  at  the 
speaker,  and  said,  "  Ah,  my  man,  my  man,  I  much 
fear  that  you  and  I  have  often  given  him  a  night's 
lodging,  without  his  speering  (asking)  our  leave." 
There  is  a  pretty  story  of  a  like  kind,  which  first 
appeared,  soon  after  Dr.  Waugh's  death,  in  The 
Eclectic  Review.  A  young  man  of  holy  and  un- 
impeachable character  was  desirous  of  entering  upon 
missionary  labour,  and  was  warmly  recommended  to 


THE  STUDENT  AND  HIS  MOTHER.        347 

the  notice  of  the  London  Missionary  Society.  He 
passed  through  the  usual  examination,  but  stated 
that  he  had  one  difficulty — he  had  an  aged  mother 
dependent  upon  an  elder  brother  and  himself  for 
maintenance  ;  in  case  of  his  brother's  death,  and  his 
mother  being  still  alive,  he  wished  to  be  at  liberty 
to  return  home  to  support  her.  Scarcely  had  he 
made  this  natural  and  pathetic  request,  than  the 
harsh  voice  of  one  of  the  Directors  exclaimed,  "  If 
you  love  your  mother  more  than  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  you  won't  do  for  us."  The  young  man  was 
abashed  and  confounded,  and  he  was  requested  to 
retire  while  the  Committee  took  his  proposal  into 
consideration.  Upon  his  return,  Dr.  Waugh,  who  was 
in  the  chair,  addressed  him  with  patriarchal  dignity, 
telling  him  that  the  Committee  did  not  feel  them- 
selves at  liberty  to  accept  his  services  on  a  condition 
involving  uncertainty  as  to  the  term,  but  im- 
mediately added,  "We  think  none  the  worse  of  you, 
my  good  lad,  for  your  beautiful  regard  to  your 
aged  parent  ;  you  are  following  the  example  of 
Him  whose  gospel  you  wish  to  proclaim  among  the 
heathen,  and  who,  when  He  hung  upon  the  cross 
in  dying  agonies,  beholding  His  mother  and  His 
beloved  disciple  standing  by,  said  to  the  one,  'Behold 
thy  son  ! '  and  to  John,  '  Behold  thy  mother  ! '  My 
good  lad,  we  think  none  the  worse  of  you."  Tender- 
ness and  sympathy  were  always  ready  to  flow  forth 
from  the  lip  or  the  pen  of  this  admirable  man.  It 
has  been  well  said  he  had  a  vivid  fancy,  but  it  did 
not  sparkle  with  a  cold  brilliancy  like  the  particles 
which  glitter  on  the  snow  when  it  is  shone  upon 
by   the   wintry    sun  ;    his   kindly    fancy   radiated  a 


348  ALEXANDER    WAUGH. 

warmth  into  the  heart  which  needed  his  ministration. 
Some  of  his  words  are  very  sweet. 

"  The  death  of  children. — Our  children  are  more  God's 
than  ours ;  He  hides  the  tender  plants  in  the  grave  till  the 
storms  of  this  wintry  life  have  passed  away ;  and  in  the 
morning  of  the  resurrection  He  will  lift  them  up  and  convey 
them  to  a  more  genial  soil,  where  through  eternity  they 
shall  blossom  to  the  honour  of  their  Saviour." 

^^  Medicine  for  sorrow. — Exercise  in  the  open  air;  cheerful 
but  holy  conversation  with  Christian  friends ;  a  habit  of 
dwelling  upon  the  luminous  spots  of  our  life,  by  which  our 
gratitude  to  God  is  enlivened,  and  our  own  joy  augmented; 
intercourse  with  God  in  reading  His  blessed  word,  and  in 
devotion  and  prayer, — all  support  and  strengthen  the  mind 
under  suffering." 

^^  Sympathy. — Community  of  trials  unites  human  hearts, 
as  fire  unites  metals." 

"Z^  ever  liveth. — When  you  and  I  die,  Providence  will  not 
be  buried  in  our  grave  ;  the  '  Redeemer  Hveth.'  We  entrust 
to  Him  our  eternal  life ;  shall  we  not  entrust  to  Him 
our  dearest  earthly  relatives?  He  will  be  a  Husband 
to  my  beloved  wife  and  a  Father  to  my  children  when  I  can 
no  longer  look  after  them ;  His  gracious  presence  will  cheer 
them  in  solitude,  shield  them  in  danger,  guide  their  inex- 
perience through  untrodden  paths  in  the  darkest  night,  wipe 
away  the  tear  which  my  hand  cannot  wipe  away,  and 
minister  instruction  when  my  lips  can  minister  no  more." 

^^  Beyond  the  river. — Our  Father  is  leading  us  home  ;  and 
the  more  rough  and  rugged  the  road  near  its  close,  the 
more  we  shall  relish  the  greensward  beyond  the  grave. 
Could  we  look  upwards  with  a  steadier  and  more  ardent  eye, 
we  should  scarce  feel  the  fluctuations  of  this  changeable 
scene.  When  a  man  feels  dizzy  in  riding  through  a  torrent 
by  looking  down  on  the  stream,  the  best  way  to  restore  his 


HIS  TENDERNESS,  349 

head  to  calmness  is  to  fix  his  eye  on  the  stationary  objects 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river." 

"  Melancholy. — Melancholy  will  grow  into  a  disease  unless 
we  check  its  progress ;  it  enfeebles  the  mind  to  bear,  while 
it  adds  to  the  burden." 

^^  Departed  friends. — It  is  not  so  much  the  innate  worth 
and  beauty  of  objects  that  gives  them  influence,  as  the  habit 
of  thinking  on  them  and  bringing  them  near  to  the  mind. 
Now  this  is  always  in  our  power ;  we  may  walk  with  our 
departed  friends,  and  hold  rational  and  devout  converse 
with  their  spirits,  without  the  medium  of  body.  It  is  thus 
we  hold  fellowship  with  the  Redeemer  Himself,  whom  now, 
though  we  see  not,  we  supremely  love,  and  in  whom  we 
fully  confide." 

Such  are  illustrations  of  a  manner  of  speech 
which,  as  it  was  very  familiar  to  him,  so  we  may 
be  sure  it  met  the  sorrows  and  needs  of  human 
hearts  everywhere.  We  have  been  desirous  of  re- 
marking that  it  was  in  the  power  of  his  tenderness, 
his  gracious  and  promptly  sympathetic  spirit,  his 
strength  very  greatly  consisted.  What  a  man  is  in 
the  social  scene,  in  the  homes  of  joy  or  of  sorrow, 
must  very  greatly  influence  his  pulpit  character  and 
career.  Often  how  far  men  are  away  from  their 
people  when  they  are  in  the  pulpit !  How  far  they 
are  away  from  their  people,  too  often,  when  pre- 
paring for  the  pulpit!  A  scheme  of  remote  thought, 
a  framework  of  cold  and  glittering  language.  There 
are  men  who  hammer  at  their  poor  heads  all  the 
week,  that  something  may  be  produced  on  the 
Sabbath  day.  It  is  a  grand  thing  to  be  a  genial 
preacher,  to  utter  the  words  which  come  down  like 
rain  ;  surely  it  implies  much  in  character.      It  need 


350  ALEXANDER    WAUGH. 

not  partake  of  that  familiarity  which  makes  either 
a  character  or  a  subject  contemptible.  The  smile 
and  the  unction  may  possess  repose  and  majesty  ; 
and  this  was  the  case  with  the  subject  of  this 
chapter.  Dr.  Waugh,  as  we  have  seen,  had  well 
rooted  and  grounded  his  mind  before  he  entered  on 
the  ministry;  and  then,  for  a  long  time,  he  prepared 
by  close  and  earnest  study,  but  soon  came  to  live 
so  active  a  life,  that  his  preaching  became  very 
much  extemporary,  contenting  himself  with  a  brief 
outline  of  his  train  of  thought  and  the  illustrations 
by  which  it  was  to  be  pressed  home.  Great  as  he 
was  as  a  preacher,  his  pastoral  cares  were  very 
heavy,  conjoined  to  his  large  connection  with  religious 
societies,  then  commencing  that  mighty  operation 
and  organization  which  have  now  become  so  power- 
ful and  almost  bewildering.  It  is  said  that  in  his 
work  of  visitation  and  pastoral  and  public  labour, 
he  generally  left  home  by  nine  or  ten  in  the  morning, 
and  did  not  return  till  night ;  this  was  his  usual 
routine  for  every  day  in  the  week  except  Saturday. 
Such  a  man  must  have  a  very  ready  mind,  resources 
within  himself  easily  at  command.  The  question 
may  occur,  whether  any  man  has  a  right  to  preach 
to  whom  it  is  not  easy  to  preach,  especially  when 
life  has  matured  his  years  to  him.  And  Dr.  Waugh 
belonged  to  that  old  routine  of  things  when  the 
minister  did  preach  three  times  every  Sabbath  ; 
sometimes  circumstances  occurred  compelling  him  to 
preach  four  times  ;  but,  after  the  fatigues  of  the 
Sabbath,  he  would  say,  "  If  I  do  not  hurt  preaching, 
preaching  will  never  hurt  me  !  "  Sometimes  at 
supper,  when  his  wife  or  children  would  press  upon 


HIS  HEALTHFUL  EXAMPLE.  351 

his  weariness  the  glass  of  wine,  tears  rushed  into 
his  eyes,  and  he  would  say,  "  Oh,  my  dear  children, 
how  grateful  your  poor  old  father  ought  to  be  ; 
there  is  many  a  brother  minister  to-night  in  Scotland, 
and  especially  in  the  Highlands,  as  tired  as  I  am, 
but  who  has  very  few  of  my  comforts  round  him." 
Such  an  example,  whatever  else  we  may  have 
attained  in  the  way  of  public  ministration,  we  have 
not  outgrown  ;  and  we  believe  a  careful  study  of 
the  character  and  the  power  of  Dr.  Waugh,  and  the 
kind  of  influence  he  exercised,  would  be  a  most 
healthful  and  animating  example  to  many  a  young 
minister.  It  is  a  life,  a  character,  and  a  kind  of 
pulpit  ministration  which  seem  to  leave  nothing  to 
be  desired.  He  lived  in,  and  for,  the  ministry. 
Some  ministers  now  have  learned  to  live  less  in 
their  ministry  than  in  many  other  departments  of 
labour — good,  honourable,  and  much  more  profitable, 
perhaps,  to  the  worldly  income,  but  in  the  pursuit 
of  which  the  minister's  work  must  especially  suffer. 
Humour  was  a  pleasant  light  in  the  character  of 
Dr.  Waugh  ;  a  man  entirely  destitute  of  it  can  never 
be  a  very  agreeable  character.  We  have  often 
remarked  upon  it  that  it  gives  the  genial  atmosphere 
to  life  and  speech  ;  a  man  without  it  must  be  very 
sharp  and  angular.  Many  possess  it  who  do  not 
know  very  well  how  to  balance  it,  either  in  public  or 
private  ;  and  it  becomes  coarse.  In  a  character  in 
which  large  self-respect  predominates  in  conjunction 
with  humour,  good  taste  and  good  sense  will  never 
be  violated,  and  the  piquant  remark  will  seldom 
sink  to  drollery,  while  it  will  have  point  and  pith  in 
its  pleasantry.      Once,  at  an   annual  dinner  of  one  of 


352  ALEXANDER    WAUGH. 

our  great  public  schools,  Dr.  Waugh's  health  having 
been  drunk,  in  returning  thanks  he  dwelt  at  some 
length  on  the  influence  of  scenery  in  forming 
character.  From  the  scenery  immediately  surround- 
ing the  school,  he  turned  to  expatiate  upon  the 
scenery  of  Scotland,  and  its  effect  on  the  minds  of 
his  countrymen.  In  the  midst  of  his  remarks  the 
company  was  shocked  by  the  loud  and  obstreperous 
laughter  of  two  young  gentlemen  present  ;  loud 
expressions  of  disapprobation  arose  from  all  the 
company.  The  Doctor,  assuming  the  richest  and 
most  soothing  of  the  Scottish  tones,  exclaimed,  "  Be 
not  angry,  gentlemen,  be  not  angry  ;  rather  pity  the 
lads  than  blame,  for  it  was  not  the  laugh  of 
contempt,  but  the  laugh  of  ignorance,  and  ignorance 
always  claims  your  pity  ;  and  ken  ye  not  that  the 
puir  bairns  have  never  been  in  Scotland  ? "  He  did 
not  often  indulge  in  wit,  he  was  too  purely  and 
simply  .  good-natured  ;  and  he  always  pushed  aside 
any  scandal,  and  prevented  an  unkind  criticism.  It 
was  noticeable,  that  in  speaking  of  preachers,  any 
especially  who  happened  to  take  his  place  in  his 
absence  from  his  own  pulpit,  he  never  said, — "  How 

did  Mr.  preach  to-day,?"  but,  "Well,  I  am  sure 

good  Mr. gave  you  an  excellent  sermon."     Such 

natures  can  of  course  express  themselves  angrily, 
vehemently  ;  nor  are  there  wanting  passages  which 
show  his  possession  of  this  power.  Referring  to  the 
number  of  persons  who  were  opposed  to  religion  from 
its  opposition  to  their  own  characters,  he  once  said,  "  It 
was  a  severe  retort  which  a  young  man  lately  made 
to  an  infidel  who  was  speaking  against  the  Divine 
legation  of  Moses.     He  had  made  many  objections 


MINISTRATION  TO  SELF- CONSCIOUSNESS.   353 

to  the  character  of  that  holy  man,  and  the  young 
Christian  said  to  him,  *  There  is  something  in  the 
history  of  Moses  that  will  warrant  your  opposition  to 
him  more  than  anything  you  have  yet  said.'  '  What 
ever  could  this  be  ? '  the  sceptic  inquired.  *  He 
wrote  the  Ten  Commandments'  " 

As  we  have  said  of  Dr.  Waugh,  we  have  Httle 
more  than  his  life.  He  published  no  sermons  ;  but 
in  the  long  run  does  that  matter  very  much  ? 
We,  on  the  contrary,  have  an  avidity  to  preach 
through  the  press  ;  printing  is  so  cheapened.  There 
must  have  been  some  extra  happiness  in  preaching 
in  those  days,  when  the  preacher  did  not  feel  that 
the  eye  of  the  critic  was  upon  him,  carefully  noting 
down  every  flaw  or  fault  of  expression,  and  hurrying 
away  to  accuse  him  of  some  want  of  taste  through 
the  columns  of  religious,  or  other  papers.  This 
ministration  to  self-consciousness  has  very  greatly 
slain  pulpit  usefulness ;  and  the  genius  of  doing 
good  has  shrunk  abashed  before  the  genius  of 
fastidiousness.  How  simply  the  old  fathers,  like 
Dr.  Waugh,  pursued  their  way  ;  they  had  no  proof 
sheets  to  correct.  It  was  enough  for  them  to  give 
full  proof  of  their  ministry.  Now,  even  the  obscure 
minister,  who  has  no  great  gift  at  all,  longs  to  live  in 
print,  and  hopes  to  secure,  by  some  volume  of  some 
weekly  Pulpit  or  other,  a  niche  in  some  future 
generation.  Probably  by  all  this  more  is  lost  than 
gained  :  usually  simplicity  is  lost,  unconscious  activity 
is  lost  ;  the  man  becomes  morbid  from  the  sense  of 
self-exaggeration,  the  notion  that  the  great  eye  of 
opinion,  critical  opinion,  is  upon  him.  Very  few  are 
able  to  loose  themselves  from  these  bands  ;  but,  even 

23 


354  ALEXANDER    WAUGH. 

now,  those  who  are  able  would  win  for  themselves  a 
large  heritage  of  usefulness  and  honour.  It  is  the 
large  heart  which  informs  the  mind,  not  an  analytical 
or  critical  disposition  or  disquisition — knowledge 
of  men  and  of  the  world  following  on  the  discipline 
derived  from  a  well-ordered  and  well-rooted  know- 
ledge of  studies  and  books.  In  the  sense  that  the 
subject  of  this  chapter  furnishes  one  of  the  most 
admirable  models  of  a  perfectly  rounded  ministerial 
character,  we  have  turned  aside  from  li\dng  voices  to 
listen  to  his.  He  was  wont  to  regard  it  as  one  of 
his  highest  treats  and  most  suggestive  lessons  to 
visit,  and  linger  among  the  tombs  and  aisles  of 
Westminster  Abbey.  For  himself,  he  desired  that 
he  might  repose  by  the  grave  of  his  father  and 
mother,  with  a  heath-bush  at  the  head  of  his  place 
of  rest,  and  only  the  heath  sod  for  its  covering.  It 
was  not  in  such  a  place  he  was  to  lie  down  ;  but, 
when  this  simple  minister  of  a  then  obscure  sect  and 
a  small  chapel  was  borne  to  his  last  abode  in 
Bunhill  Fields,  followed  by  an  immense  procession 
wending  its  long  way,  following  between  forty  and 
fifty  mourning  coaches,  and  thirteen  private  car- 
riages, attended  by  the  representative  ministers  of 
all  denominations  in  the  metropolis,  it  surely 
might  suggest  then,  as  it  suggests  now,  the  ques- 
tion,—  By  what  means  did  he  win  so  much  respect 
in  life  as  to  command  such  an  ovation  in  death  .-' 
The  answer  is  simple.  His  mind  was  sturdy  and 
strong,  his  scholarship  ample  and  sufficient,  his 
eloquence  ready  and  great  ;  but  the  commanding 
secret  of  his  usefulness  and  the  affection  with 
which  he   was  regarded  was   the   simplicity  of  his 


SECRET  OF  HIS   USEFULNESS.  355 


character,    arising  from   a   large,  loving,   and   over- 
flowing heart. 

As  we  close  these  reminiscences,  we  have  no  doubt 
that  Alexander  Waugh  was  a  "  live  coal "  from  the 
altar ;  his  tongue  might  be  frequently  called  "  a 
tongue  of  fire,"  but  his  doctrine,  assuredly,  and 
invariably,  "  distilled  as  the  dew." 


CHAPTER   XII. 

LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. —  THE  ART 
OF  OBSCURITY  AND  THE  SCIENCE  OF 
CLEARNESS. 

THE  dryness  of  sermons  is  proverbial,  and  has 
been  made  the  subject  of  many  a  joke,  from 
the  time  of  that  worthy  of  whom  one  of  his  people 
said,  "Well,  if  another  flood  should  come  on  the 
earth,  and  they  could  get  on  one  of  his  sermons,  they 
would  find  a  dry  place  at  any  rate  ; "  or  that  old 
Scotch  preacher  who,  going  to  kirk  through  the 
rain,  and  shaking  off  the  wet  on  the  church  porch, 
said  to  his  sexton,  "  Sandy,  my  man,  I'm  vara 
weet''  "  Ay,  sir,"  replied  the  sexton,  "  but  gang 
yer  ways  up  into  the  pulpit,  and  ye'll  be  dry 
enough  there."  And  therefore  we  have  put  to- 
gether obscurity  and  dryness  ;  men  are  always  dry 
when  they  are  desultory  and  obscure,  and  an 
audience  will  listen  with  pleasure,  even  for  some 
length  of  time,  to  a  man  who  conveys  his  thoughts 
with  clearness  and  perspicuity.  Is  not  perspicuity 
one  of  the  first  duties  in  a  speaker  ? 

We  suppose,  when  we  talk  of  dry  sticks,  there  is 
no  topic  more  naturally  suggested  to  tlie  mind  than 
the  question  of  "  the  length  of  the  sermon."  How 
long  should  the  sermon  be  }    And  no  doubt,  first,  the 


BE  SHORT.  357 


length  of  the  sermon  has  much  to  do  with  Its 
dryness.  When  we  were  a  child  we  never  heard 
a  sermon  which  was  closed  within  the  space  of  an 
hour  and  a  quarter.  Prodigiously  long  have  some 
sermons  been,  even  meandering  away  for  hours  ;  on 
the  other  hand,  some  have  been  just  as  remarkable 
for  their  brevity ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  almost 
interminable  length  to  which  some  preachers  have 
extended  their  discourses,  there  seems  little  doubt 
that  the  balance  of  opinion  in  most  ages  has  been 
in  favour  of  the  short  discourse.  Preaching  in  the 
early  Church  was  short  ;  it  is  probable  that  Chry- 
sostom's  famous  words  seldom  ran  on  beyond  a 
period  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  twenty  minutes. 
In  our  own  day  the  Abbd  Mullois,  a  distinguished 
dignitary  of  the  Romish  Church  and  the  private 
chaplain  to  the  late  Emperor  Napoleon  the  Third, 
in  his  very  instructive  book  on  preaching,  insists 
upon  it  that  the  sermon  should  not  extend  beyond 
seven  or  ten  minutes  ;  he  says,  "  Much  more  can 
be  said  in  two  minutes  than  is  generally  thought, 
when  due  preparation  is  made,  when  we  have  a 
good  knowledge  of  mankind  and  are  well  versed  in 
the  subject."  And  he  continues,  "  A  sermon  must 
not  be  a  bore  ;  even  mediocre  preachers  are  accept- 
able provided  their  discourses  are  short,  whereas 
the  very  best  preachers  are  a  burden  when  they 
speak  too  long."  And  yet  brevity  may  be,  and  often 
has  been  wearisome  when  conjoined  to  a  purposeless 
prolixity  of  manner.  Our  readers  will  remember 
the  word  of  Horace,  "  Esto  Brevis  "  :  Be  short.  But 
then  he  says  again,  "Brevzs  esse  labor Oy  obsciirus fio  "  : 
I  labour  to  be  short,  I  become  obscure.     And  yet 


358  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STLCKS. 

Luther's    maxims  were   all  good    ones — "  Stand    up 
cheerfully  ;   speak  up  manfully  ;   leave  off  speedilyT 

When  George  Canning,  the  great  orator  and 
statesman,  heard  Dr.  Legge,  the  Bishop  of  Oxford 
of  his  day,  after  the  service  this  preacher  inquired 
of  Canning,  "  How  did  you  like  my  sermon  ?  "  "  I 
thought  it  was  short,"  he  replied.  **  I  am  aware  it 
was  short,"  said  the  prelate,  "  but  I  was  afraid  of 
being  tedious."  "But  you  were  tedious"  said  Canning; 
"  you  zvere  tedious  !  "  And  there  is  another  well- 
known  story  of  a  late  Marquis  of  Normanby,  who, 
when  he  was  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  at  the 
close  of  a  service,  said  to  his  chaplain,  "  There 
were  some  things  in  the  course  of  your  sermon 
to-day,  sir,  which  I  never  heard  before."  The 
chaplain  professed  himself  flattered,  but  he  modestly 
repelled  the  impeachment  of  originality,  saying  that 
the  subject  scarcely  admitted  any  novelty  of  treat- 
ment, so  that  he  would  be  glad  to  know  what  points 
they  were  which  had  struck  his  Lordship.  "  Yes," 
resumed  the  peer,  "  there  were  some  things  which, 
in  those  relations,  I  never  heard  before — I  heard  the 
clock  strike  twice." 

Long  sermons,  we  may  suppose,  do  certainly  not 
stand  high  in  favour  with  audiences,  old  or  young. 
That  minister  must  doubtless  have  been  surprised 
when,  questioning  his  Sunday-school  concerning  the 
story  of  Eutychus, — the  young  man  who,  listening 
to  the  preaching  of  the  Apostle  Paul,  fell  asleep, 
and  falling  down,  was  taken  up  dead, — he  said,  "What 
do  we  learn  from  this  very  solemn  event  } "  and  a 
little  creature  replied,  "  Please,  sir,  ministers  should 
learn  not  to  preach  long  sermons!"      It  was  scarcely 


''NOT  SMOKE  BUT  LIGHT r  359 

the  lesson  the  ministerial  catechist  intended  or  ex- 
pected. 

But  obscurity  ? 

Let  us  still  remember — "  Not  smoke,  but  light." 
This  is  a  motto  from  Horace  which  we  may  take 
into  the  pulpit.  If  we  cannot  give  light  there,  we  had 
far  better  keep  away  ;  or,  if  there,  we  had  far  better 
read  a  chapter  or  a  text,  and  then  be  silent  ;  there 
may  be  a  hope  that  this  will  make  its  way.  When 
we  go  into  a  Papist  place  of  worship  we  are  often 
steeped  in  a  stench  of  musk  and  aloes.  "  Oh  ! "  we 
say,  "would  that  there  were  only  real  human  words 
here,  real  human  feelings  here  ;  these  stenches  are 
not  the  prayers  of  the  saints."  We  sit  still,  and 
presently  rises  the  long,  almost  inarticulate,  and 
inaudible  mumbling  and  muttering  of  the  Latin. 
"  Oh  !  "  we  say,  "  this  is  but  an  unknown  tongue." 
And  what  is  that  better  which  is  but  a  smoke  of 
speech  .-'  It  is  so  of  many  preachers,  that  all  they 
have  contrived  to  do  by  their  words  is  to  reverse  the 
canon  of  Horace,  and  to  obtain  smoke  from  light. 
They  have  turned  the  very  New  Testament  itself 
into  darkness.  Thus,  often  either  with  wild,  fanciful, 
mystical  interpretations,  or  with  misty  metaphysics, 
with  long  and  complicated  words,  with  a  vehement 
and  noisy  manner,  the  subject  was  plain  enough 
when  the  preacher  began,  but  dark  enough  at  the 
close,  because  he  did  not  remember  the  maxim  : 
"  Not  smoke  but  light."  A  rare  volume  might 
be  filled,  and  the  materials  are  close  at  our  hand, 
with   illustrations  of  nonsense  sermons. 

M.  Mullois  quotes  the  well-known  anecdote  of 
Louis  XIV.  in  the  chapel  at  Versailles,  when  some 


36o  LIVJS  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

preacher  took  the  occasion  boldly  to  inveigh  against 
the  vices  and  the  peculiar  dangers  of  the  great,  and 
at  length  exclaimed,  "  Woe  to  the  rich  !  Woe  to 
the  great  !  "  The  courtiers  murmured,  although  the 
king  had  lowered  his  eyes  ;  after  the  sermon,  they 
gathered  round  the  monarch,  and  talked  of  the  im- 
pertinence of  the  preacher,  and  of  reprimanding  him 
for  his  temerity.  The  king  quietly  said,  "  Gentle- 
men, the  preacher  has  done  his  duty  ;  now  let  us  do 
ours."  It  is  one  of  the  most  natural  and  simple 
sayings  recorded  of  Louis  XIV.  Not  to  shine  on 
pages  should  be  the  ambition  of  the  preacher  ;  he 
lives  in  a  voice,  and  the  voice  expires.  The  mighty 
masters  and  mistresses  of  song  know  this,  and  are 
content  to  act  upon  it ;  Malibran,  Braham,  Jenny 
Lind,  and  Sims  Reeves  can  have  no  posthumous 
fame.  The  music  they  hold  in  their  hands  is  just 
the  same  as  we  have  in  our  drawing-rooms.  They 
live  in  the  moment,  but  then,  in  their  world,  it  is  a 
very  great  moment.  The  soul  interprets,  and  fills 
out,  and  gives  the  rest  and  the  movement  to  each 
bar ;  this  is  their  business.  We  have  no  doubt  that 
the  pulpit  has  suffered  greatly  by  shorthand  writers, 
the  taking  down  of  sermons,  the  incessant  publica- 
tion of  sermons,  the  fastidiousness  that  waits  on 
nicely-balanced  images  and  harmoniously-constructed 
sentences.  All  this  interferes  with,  and  robs  the 
address  of  its  accent  of  conviction  ;  the  orator  can 
no  more  survive  than  the  singer.  Our  bookshelves 
groan  beneath  the  weight  of  voluminous  tomes, 
which  originally  found  their  expression  in  sermons  ; 
and  during  the  last  iQ\^  years  the  publication  of 
sermons    has    broken    out   with    astonishing  vigour. 


DECANTED  SODA    WATER.  361 

There  is  a  simple  reason  for  this.  If  an  edition  of 
sermons  be,  on  the  average,  of  all  books  least  likely 
to  be  read,  it  is  also,  on  the  average,  of  all  books 
most  certain  to  be  sold.  Any  preacher  in  tolerable 
favour  can  command  an  audience  not  only  for  his 
tongue,  but  for  his  pen.  It  must  be  admitted,  and 
most  readers  very  well  know  it,  that  there  is  an 
amazing  difference  between  the  successful  and  im- 
pressive word  in  the  pulpit  and  success  and  impres- 
sion in  the  arm-chair  by  the  fireside.  It  is  quite 
amusing  to  hear  how  stoutly  people  will  insist  upon 
it  that  a  sermon  is  not  all  printed,  and  give  vent 
to  their  disappointment  in  reading  that  to  which 
they  had  listened  with  so  much  pleasure.  Of  course, 
as  we  have  said  before,  all  is  not  printed  ;  manner 
cannot  be  printed,  nor  accent,  nor  a  thousand  little 
particulars  which  go  to  make  up  the  undefinable 
charm.  Words  in  their  delivery  seem  so  much  more 
full,  so  much  more  copious  and  comprehensive  ;  and 
audiences  yearn  to  receive  a  sermon,  under  the  im- 
pression that  it  will  be  as  much  to  them  in  coldly 
reading  as  when  it  leaped  red-hot  from  the  sympa- 
thetic furnace  of  the  speaker's  soul.  They  yearn  to 
read  it,  and  yawn  over  it.  Printed  sermons  in 
general  can  be  little  better  than  decanted  soda-water 
a  day  old. 

Great  sermons  which  have  thus  moved  us  to  all 
our  depths,  we  have  desired  to  see  in  print  ; 
perhaps  they  were  very  well,  probably  very  poor 
indeed  ;  in  any  case,  how  different  from  that  inef- 
fable flight  of  soul,  the  searching,  penetrating  words 
we  heard.  This  is  exactly  as  it  ought  to  be,  no 
stronger  proof,  to  those  who  did  not  hear,  that  the 


362  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

man  was  really  at  home  in  his  work.  Whitefield's 
sermons  are  very  poor  things  to  read  compared  with 
their  overwhelming  power.  Oratory  is  neither  in 
writing,  acting,  nor  even  speaking.  Where  is  the 
fragrance  of  a  flower }  Where  are  the  tones  of  a 
harp  }  They  were  there,  here,  they  are  gone, 
you  cannot  catch  them  ;  it  is  so  with  the  accent  of 
conviction.  This  is  the  fragrance  and  the  music  of 
a  sermon  good  for  anything  ;  and  although  we  have 
taken  high  illustrations,  we  again  say  that  this 
sacred  fire  may  burn  on  the  altar  of  any  soul  itself 
persuaded  and  impressed.  Of  course,  when  it  is 
really  a  great  soul  as  well  as  a  sanctified  one — a 
David,  a  St.  Bernard,  or  an  Edward  Irving — the 
conviction  accumulated,  and  on  fire  through  all  the 
faculties  of  a  great  nature,  proportionately  compels 
the  audience  to  tremble  and  thrill. 

And  it  comes  out  of  this  that  the  sermon  will  be 
plain.  M,  Mullois  has  several  chapters  with  such 
headings  as  the  following  : — "  The  Sermon  should 
be  popular "  ;  "  The  Sermon  should  be  plain  "  ; 
"  The  Sermon  should  be  short."  Another  chapter 
follows  on  "  Fact  and  kindliness,"  and  on  "  Interest, 
emotion,  and  animation."  Now,  in  reahty,  while  all 
these  topics  are  worthy  of  separate  thought  and 
enforcement,  they  all  are  related  to  those  two  canons 
on  which  we  have  dwelt  already  ;  that  to  address 
men  well,  they  must  be  loved  much  ;  and  that  to 
persuade  them,  there  must  be  on  the  speaker's  tongue 
the  accent  of  conviction.  All  this  results,  in  fact,  we 
believe,  from  the  over  full  soul — all  superfluity  flows 
from  a  full  heart.  There  is  a  twofold  sense  in  which 
it  is  true  that  "  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart 


^^FILL    UP  THE   CASK!"  Z^i 


the    mouth    speakcth."     The    heart    not    only    con- 
strahis.  it  restrains  ;    artificial    speech    always^  lacks 
the  real  flavour  and  force  which  the  heart  gives  to 
words,  and  certainly  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that 
words-words-mere   words    alone,    either    indicate 
the  full  heart,  or  the  ability  to  reach  the  heart      i  his 
fulness,  or  Divine  pleroma,  is  not  indicated  by  the 
organ  of  language.     The  late  Dr.  James  Alexander 
says  •  «  I  listened  yesterday  to  a  sermon,  and  I  am 
olad   I  do  not  know  the  preacher's  name  ;  it  was 
?wenty-five  minutes  long  ;  all  the  matter  might  have 
been  uttered  in  five  ;  it  was  like  what  the  ladies  call 
'  trifle  '—all    sweetness    and    froth,  except  a  modi- 
cum   of   cake    at    the    bottom— it    was.    doubtless, 
spoken  extempore."     When  a  young  clergyman  once 
inquired  of  Dr.  Bellamy  "what  he  should  do  to  have 
matter  for  his  discourses,"  the  shrewd  old  gentleman 
replied,  "  Fill  up  the  cask  ;  fill  up  the  cask;  FILL  UP 
THE  CASK  ;  then,  if  you  tap  it  anywhere,  you  get  a 
good  stream  ;  if  you  put  in  but  little,  it  will  dribble, 
dribble,   dribble,    and  you  must   tap,  tap,   tap,  anc. 
then    get  but   little   after   all."      But   this  does   not 
represent  all— this  will  not  give  that  piquancy  and 
plainness,  that  instantaneous  power  of  touch  which 
is  in  fact,  the  full  mind,  flavoured  and  spiced  by  an 
intense  soul.     We  think  it  very  likely  that  the  influ- 
ence and  power  of  sermons  have  been  impaired   and 
impeded  by  their  length.      All  men,  whatever  their 
attainment,  or  capacity,  or  experience,  in  Protestant 
churches,    have    been     expected    to    fill     out     their 
sermons    to    a     certain    length,     and     that     length 
perhaps,  quite  sufficient  for  human  patience,  even  if 
the  preacher  be  a  man  of  eloquence  and  conviction. 


364  I^IVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

How,  then,  when  he  is  neither  one  nor  the  other, 
or,  at  best,  a  Liliputian  in  either  ?  It  is  true  of 
sermons  as  Horace  says  of  poetry.  All  overflowing 
is  from  a  full  heart,  and  preachers  should  use,  and 
give  to  their  hearers,  whatever  adds  really  to  the 
apprehension  of  the  subject  in  their  own  mind  ; 
there  is  an  unwise  conciseness,  as  there  is  a  tedious 
dififuseness ;  all  that  brings  nearer  is  useful  ;  all 
that  tends  more  to  unveil  the  subject  to  the  mind 
helps  ;  there  are,  among  our  modern  preachers,  many 
whose  words  suffer  thus,  and  their  people  suffer  in 
them.  While  it  is  quite  possible  to  drown  the  sense 
in  a  bewildering  world  of  sounds,  it  is  also  possible 
to  fail  through  want  of  application  ;  few  audiences 
will  beat  a  nugget  of  gold  into  gold  leaf  for  them- 
selves ;  very  few  are  disposed  to  be  at  any  trouble. 
We  heard  a  criticism  upon  a  minister  some  time 
since  :  "  It  is  so  nice  to  hear  our  minister  ;  you  hear 
the  same  thing  from  month  to  month  over  again  ; 
dear  man  ;  it's  always  the  same.  Ah  !  you  always 
know  where  to  find  Jdmr  Therefore,  we  say, 
encourage  a  flow,  not  a  flood.  Rarely  can  it  be 
wise  to  imitate  the  cataract  in  force  or  speed,  but 
the  river  you  may  imitate.  Dr.  Johnson  says,  "  It 
is  so  much  easier  to  acquire  correctness  than  flow 
that  I  would  say  to  every  young  preacher,  *  Write  as 
fast  as  you  can.'  "  Whitefield's  rule  was  "  never  to 
take  back  anything  unless  it  were  wicked."  "  This," 
says  Dr.  Alexander,  "  is  very  different  from  rapid 
utterance  or  precipitancy.  Deliberate  speech  is,  on 
the  whole,  most  favourable."  Pastor  Harms  was 
wont  to  comprehend  his  idea  of  delivery  to  students 
in    three    L's — "  Langsam,    Laid,    Lieblich^'  poorly 


THE  HARANGUES  OF  NAPOLEON  I.      365 


rendered  by  "lengthened"— that  is,  deUberate — 
"  loud,  and  lovely  "  ;  but  Luther's,  which  we  have 
just  quoted,  is  better. 

M.  Mullois  insists,  with  great  earnestness,  on  the 
necessity  for  brevity.  He  quotes  St.  Frangois  de 
Sales  : — 

"  The  good  Saint  Frangois,  in  his  rules  to  the  preachers 
of  his  Order,  directs  that  their  sermons  should  be  short. 

"  Believe  me— and  I  speak  from  experience— the  more 
you  say,  the  less  will  the  hearers  retain ;  the  less  you  say, 
the  more  they  will  profit.  By  dint  of  burdening  their 
memory,  you  will  overwhelm  it;  just  as  a  lamp  is  extm- 
guished  by  feeding  it  with  too  much  oil,  and  plants  are 
choked  by  immoderate  irrigation. 

"  When  a  sermon  is  too  long,  the  end  erases  the  middle 
from  the  memory,  and  the  middle  the  beginning. 

**  Is  not  long  preaching  very  much  like  an  attempt  to 
surpass  these  men,  who  were  so  highly  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  Christianity?" 

He  continues  :— 

«  But  it  will  be  objected :  What  can  be  said  in  ten  or 
seven  minutes  ?  .  .  .  Have  not  a  few  words  often  sufficed 
to  revolutionise  multitudes,  and  to  produce  an  immense 
impression? 

*'  The  harangues  of  Napoleon  only  lasted  a  few  minutes, 
yet  they  electrified  whole  armies.  The  speech  at  Bordeaux 
did  not  exceed  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  yet  it  resounded 
throughout  the  world.  Had  it  been  longer,  it  would  have 
been  less  effective.  In  fifteen  weeks,  with  a  sermon  of 
seven  minutes  every  Sunday,  one  might  give  a  complete 
course  of  religious  instruction,  if  the  sermons  were  well 
digested  beforehand. 

"If,  then,  you  wish  to  be  successful,  in  the  first  place 


366  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

fix  the  length  of  your  sermon,  and  never  go  beyond  the 
time !  be  inflexible  on  that  score.  Should  you  exceed 
it,  apologize  to  your  audience  for  so  doing,  and  prove 
in  the  pulpit  of  truth  that  you  can  be  faithful  to  your  word. 

"  *  But  do  speak  more  at  length  ;  .  .  .  you  are  wrong  in 
being  so  brief;  .  .  .  you  only  tantalize  your  audience;  .  .  . 
you  deprive  them  of  a  real  pleasure.'  Expostulations 
like  these  will  pour  in  upon  you  ;  but  don't  listen  to  them : 
be  inflexible,  for  those  who  urge  them  are  enemies  without 
knowing  it.  Be  more  rigid  than  ever  in  observing  the 
rule  which  you  have  prescribed  for  yourself.  Then  your 
sermon  will  be  talked  of;  it  will  be  a  phenomenon; 
everybody  will  come  to  see  a  sermon  of  seven  minutes^ 
duration.  The  people  will  come  ;  the  rich  will  follow. 
Faith  will  bring  the  one,  and  curiosity  will  attract  the 
other,  and  thus  the  Divine  word  will  have  freer  course 
and  be  glorified."  .  .  . 

This  is  certainly,  to  speak  in  paradox,  carrying 
brevity  to  its  utmost  extent.  Preachers  of  the 
Church  of  Rome  have  usually  designed  brevity.  We 
believe  they  have  no  instances,  like  those  tremendous 
trials  of  patience  in  the  great  Puritan  and  Church  of 
England  preachers  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries,  who  did  hold  their  audiences  for  hours. 
It  is  noteworthy,  although  we  do  not  speak  of 
exceptional  occasions,  nor  do  we  forget  instances  to 
the  contrary,  that  some  of  the  greatest  and  most 
useful  preachers  of  our  day  never  pass  beyond  half 
an  hour,  while  others  are  scarcely  even  so  long. 
Perhaps,  if  preachers  remembered  more  frequently 
that  words  will  not  come  back,  "  Nescit  vox  missa 
reverti  " — "  A  v^^ord  sent  abroad  can   never  return," 


LABOUR  AND  PERSEVERANCE.  36; 


it  would  check  in  all  a  too  impulsive  flow  ;  surely 
it  might  make  us  all  tremble  to  think  of  the  im- 
mortality of  our  words,   and   especially  if  they  are 
uttered  with  any  measure  of  vitality  of  conviction  ; 
but,  however  uttered,  who  can  limit  their  destination  ? 
Who  can  tell  the  soil  into  which  they  may  fall,  and 
in  what  manner  they  shall  bring  forth  fruit?     Certain 
it  is,  they   can  never   return  ;  therefore   should  the 
conscience  dictate  the  word,  should  rule  the  influence, 
shape   the   sentence,    and   give   accent   to   the    tone. 
This  would  be  the  true  study  of   the    passions,  of 
that  difficult   and    yet   so   desirable   part   of   pulpit 
power,  the  pathetic.      It  is  to  be  supposed  we  have, 
in  our  turn,  all  been  compelled  to  laugh  where  the 
orator  intended  we  should  cry  ;  he  had  learned  his 
lesson  so  badly  ;  he  knew  nothing  of  what  he  was 
speaking,  simulating   a  tone  ;   as    when    an    auditor 
spoke  of  a  rather  celebrated   French  preacher,  and 
said,  "  In  your  preaching  just  now,  you  pronounced, 
'Depart,  ye   cursed,'    exactly    as    if   you   had   been 
saying,  '  Come,   ye   blessed    of    My    Father.' "     We 
do  not  imply  from  this  that,  beside  the  preparation 
of  the  heart,  there  is  not  necessary  a  human  artist- 
side  to  preparation  for  the  pulpit,  in  the  first  place, 
as  the  whole  result  will  depend  on  the  true  humanity 
and   fine   texture   of   the   human    instrument    itself. 
This  is  a  human  side,  and  then,  beyond  this,  what 
right    has   any    man   to  suppose  himself   exempted 
from  the  old  law  of  labour  1     "  By  the  file,  and  by 
the   whetstone,"  to  quote   again    another  sentiment 
from   Horace,  the  work  proceeds,  — "  By  the  labour 
and  by  the  tediousness  of  the   file."     To  all   suc- 
cess goes  patience,  plodding,  and  perseverance,  and 


368  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

the  great  masters  of  speech,  however  free,  full, 
and  flashing  their  words  might  be,  were  no  real 
exceptions  to  this  great  law  ;  on  the  contrary,  they 
illustrated  it.  "  Fungar  vice  cotis" — ^"  I  will  do  the 
office  of  a  whetstone,"  and  this  refers  to  external 
helps  and  aids.  The  whetstone  cannot  cut  itself, 
but  it  can  sharpen  the  steel  and  enable  it  to  cut  ; 
and  so  with  all  studies.  All  the  stores  and  accumula- 
tions of  mental  wealth  and  discipline,  every  study  is 
a  whetstone  to  sharpen  the  wits.  Moreover,  if  the 
iron  be  blunt,  then  to  the  file  or  the  whetstone 
must  be  put  more  strength.  What  can  any  science, 
language,  or  book,  do  for  a  teacher }  Mathematics, 
criticism — they  are  valuable,  but  they  are  only 
valuable  as  they  are  proved  by  the  labour  of  the 
file,  not  in  themselves;  they  are  a  kind  of  whetstone 
on  which  to  sharpen  the  intelligence.  They  are  like 
a  hone,  dead  and  lifeless  in  itself,  yet  calling  forth 
the  edge  and  sharpness  in  the  steel.  All  people 
must  in  their  time  have  been  amazed  at  the  little 
that  study  and  reading  in  many  departments  seem 
to  have  effected  for  many  men. 

And,  if  we  seem  to  step  from  these  considerations 
to  some  apparently  not  so  closely,  at  first  sight, 
connected  with  them,  it  is  for  the  purpose  of  asking 
what,  in  the  whole  range  of  culture,  can  go  beyond 
the  enabling  a  man  to  speak  plainly  upon  the 
matters  he  takes  in  hand  ?  From  some  cause  or 
other,  we  believe,  if  auditors  were  polled,  their 
verdict  would  be  that,  in  general,  preaching  is 
obscure.  M.  Mullois  well,  and  not  needlessly  says, 
"  The  sermon  should  be  plain."  A  spirit  thoroughly 
in  earnest,  when  it  attempts  to  enter  regions  where 


PLAINNESS  OF  SPEECH  INDISPENSABLE.  369 

perhaps  the  multitude  may  be  unable  to  follow,  will 
usually  convey  a  feeling,  an  impression,  of  an  elevated 
and  healthful  character;  but  no  sermon,  even  if  it  have 
passages  of  this  character,  should  be  wanting  in 
strokes  and  general  delineations  and  impressions 
which  should  entitle  it  to  the  character  of  a  plain 
sermon,  great  statements,  great  enforcements,  and 
great  influences  distinctly  felt.  This  has  been  the 
mark  of  all  great  oratory.  Demosthenes  has  ever 
been  held  as  a  mark  and  a  model  in  this  particular. 
What  we  know  of  the  neglected,  and  almost  forgotten, 
but  splendid  orations  of  Bolingbroke,  one  of  the 
greatest  of  English  masters,  and  the  invectives  and 
orations  of  Chatham,  Brougham,  and  Fox,  were  of 
this  type.  When  we  look  at  the  great  masters  of 
pulpit  eloquence,  Massillon,  Bourdaloue,  Saurin,  Hall, 
and  even  Irving,  it  is  the  same  ;  plainness,  so  far 
from  being  an  impediment  to,  is  an  element  of 
eloquence.  Surely  the  question  is  natural  enough. 
How  can  that  be  really  eloquent  which  is  not 
obvious .''  Neither  a  flow  of  speech,  nor  fertility  of 
illustration  can  constitute  it,  but  the  fitness  of  both 
to  impress  and  carry  along  the  feelings  of  an 
audience  ;  and  the  end  of  all  homiletics  should  be 
twofold,  namely,  to  furnish  the  mind  with  method, 
and  to  give  it  freedom,  freshness,  and  clearness  in 
the  use  of  it. 

Sometimes  ministers  have  taken  singular  expedients 
to  awaken  drowsy  congregations  who,  by  the  effect 
of  their  somnolent  words,  have  been  gathered  to  the 
sleep  of  their  fathers.  Sydney  Smith  used  to  say  that 
"  some  preachers  seemed  to  think  that  sin  was  to  be 
taken  out  of  men  as  Eve  was  taken  out  of  Adam — 

24 


370  LIVE   COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

by  first  putting  them  to  sleep."  Emanuel  Deutsch, 
in  his  paper  on  the  Talmud,  recites  from  that 
wonderful  collection  of  ancient  Hebrew  tradition,  the 
story  of  an  old  Jewish  preacher  who,  in  the  course  of 
a  hot  Eastern  afternoon,  while  he  was  expounding 
some  intricate  subtlety  of  the  law,  beheld  his 
hearers  quietly  fall  away  in  drowsy  slumbers. 
Suddenly  he  burst  forth,  "  There  was  once  a  woman  in 
Egypt  who  brought  forth  at  one  birth  six  hundred 
thousand  men  ! "  We  may  fancy  how  the  audience 
started  at  this  remarkable  tale  of  this  prolific 
Eg>'ptian  woman  !  Very  quickly  the  preacher 
proceeded,  "Her  name  was  Jochebed  ;  she  was  the 
mother  of  Moses,  who  was  worth  as  much  as  all 
those  six  hundred  thousand  armed  men  put  together 
who  went  up  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt."  His 
hearers,  it  is  said,  slept  no  more  that  afternoon. 

So  that  we  suppose  the  virtue  of  long-windedness 
comes  down  to  us  from  ancient  times.  "  What  a  gift," 
says  quaint  old  Thomas  Fuller,  with  evident  feelings 
of  admiration,  "what  a  gift  had  John  Haslebach, 
professor  at  Vienna,  in  tediousness,  who,  having  to 
expound  the  prophet  Isaiah  to  his  auditors,  read 
twenty-one  years  on  one  chapter,  and  yet  exhausted 
it  not."  Dr.  Southey  calls  this  Haslebach  "  the  arch- 
emperor  of  the  spin  texts,  but  yet,"  he  continues, 
"  the  Rabbi  Chananiah  may  contest  the  palm  with  the 
Vienna  professor  ;  it  is  recorded  of  him  that,  when 
he  undertook  to  write  a  commentary  upon  part  of 
the  prophet  Ezekiel,  he  requested  the  Jews  to  supply 
him  with  three  hundred  tons  of  oil  for  the  use  of 
his  lamp  while  he  should  be  engaged  in  the  work." 
He  does  the  ancient  rabbi  the  justice,  however,  to 


OBSCURE  PROLIXITY.  371 

believe — what  we  also  believe  to  be  true — that  it  was 
in  this  way  he  intended  to  affirm  that  the  prophecies 
of  Ezekiel  were  inscrutable  beyond  all,  even  rabbinical 
knowledge. 

So  we  may  give,  as  the  second  circumstance 
of  dryness,  the  obscure  prolixity  of  the  preacher. 

It  is  certainly  the  case  that  usually  the  failure  to 
arrest  attention  is  supposed  to  be  mainly  attributable 
to  the  preacher  ;  and  of  course  there  are  different 
audiences.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  every 
preacher,  however  admirable  and  excellent,  is  fitted 
for,  or  can  make  himself  intelligible  to  any  and  every 
congregation,  although  it  is  possible  to  feel  the 
force  of  an  argument  the  course  of  which  we  cannot 
see,  and  to  bow  before  the  impression  of  an  eloquence 
which  is  little  more  than  a  strain  of  captivating 
music,  but  of  which  the  words  are  unintelligible. 
Edmund  Burke  was  one  of  the  greatest  orators  in 
the  English  parliament  of  any  age,  and  his  speeches 
are  still  regarded  as  fountains  of  political  wisdom. 
It  has  been  said  that  he  had  more  of  the  material 
of  oratory  than  any  other  statesman  ;  yet  his 
immortal  speeches  were  delivered  to  almost  empty 
benches  in  the  House  of  Commons.  The  great 
man  fell  into  a  habit  of  dissertation ;  he  became 
loquacious,  abstract,  and  prosy ;  he  lost  thus  in 
directness,  concentration,  and  Jire  ;  and  thus  he 
earned  for  himself  the  satire  of  Goldsmith  in 
Retaliation  : — 

*'  Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such. 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much  ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing  while  they  thought  of  dining." 


372  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

But,  again,  he  will  always  be  a  dry  preacher  who 
has  not  a  fount  of  living  freshness  and  interest  in 
himself.  Dry  sticks  ?  why,  of  course  we  all  know 
that  there  are  dry  sticks.  But  perhaps  we  might 
differ  as  to  what  constitutes  the  dryness  ;  in  a  word, 
we  should  say,  where  there  is  no  upward  eye,  no 
prophetic  instinct,  no  Divine  perception,  no  human 
tenderness,  no  illuminating  vision,  there  must  be 
dryness  ;  an  interesting  man  and  teacher  makes  every- 
thing interesting,  and  a  dull,  monotonous,  lifeless  mind 
makes  everything  lifeless  by  its  touch.  We  have 
said  a  thousand  times  to  young  preachers.  Do  not  talk 
about  anything  that  is  uninteresting  to  you.  We  have 
seen  a  man  take  a  bone,  a  fossil  bone,  and,  as  soon 
as  he  touched  it,  he  clothed  it  with  flesh,  and  we  saw 
the  ancient  creature  of  the  pre-Adamite  world  re- 
habilitated, for  there  was  a  living  interest  in  the 
mind  of  the  comparative  anatomist.  We  have  seen  a 
man  take  a  dead  leaf  in  his  hands  ;  he  expounded 
how  the  whole  tree  was  in  the  leaf ;  in  his  hands  a 
mighty  process  of  living  venation  was  seen  ;  in  his 
hands  the  dead  leaf  instantly  became  a  forest ;  for 
the  interest  of  a  man,  like  Hugh  Macmillan,  charms 
the  dry  leaf  from  death  and  makes  it  a  tree  of  life  to 
his  hearer.  We  have  seen  a  man  take  a  bit  of 
chalk,  and  it  became  a  limelight,  pouring  a  stream 
of  splendour  down  the  dark  vaults  of  ancient 
creation  ;  we  have  seen  a  man  take  a  stone,  or  an 
insect,  and  each  became  alive,  full  of  romantic 
interest  ;  they  illuminated  the  past  or  the  present 
ages,  and  shed  a  light  over  the  fields  of  existence  ; 
and  then  we  have  seen  a  man  take  a  holy  text,  a 
real    live    coal    from    off   the    altar,    and    with    his 


THE  REV.  MR.    GEHAZI.  ^>]i 

criticisms,  exegeses,  and  eschatologies,  the  corpse- 
like chill  of  his  own  soul  extinguished  the  fire  ;  and, 
in  his  hands,  it  became  a  cinder,  and  instead  of 
a  flame,  lo  !  it  crumbled  into  ashes  in  his  hand. 

And  indeed  it  is  only  a  living  conscience  can 
search  the  conscience,  and  there  have  been  preachers 
who,  far  from  being  dry  sticks,  have  been  live  coals. 
But  they  have,  we  believe,  often  paid  heavily  for 
their  temerity  ;  we  could  fill  a  volume  with  instances 
in  which  even  professedly  religious  men  have  spoken 
in  the  spirit  of  Mr.  Biglow  : — 

**  I'm  williii'  a  man  should  go  toUble  strong 
Agin  wrong  in  the  abstract,  for  that  kind  of  wrong 
Is  allays  unpop'lar,  and  never  gets  pitied, 
Becos  it's  a  wrong  no  one  ever  committed; 
But  he  mustn't  be  hard  on  partic'lar  sins, 
'Cos  then  he'll  be  kickin'  the  people's  own  shins.** 

And  may  we  not  be  forgiven  for  saying  that,  in 
this  as  in  other  departments,  there  may  be  automatic 
action  and  no  real  life  .-'  for  a  man  must  be  a  dry 
stick  who  has  no  real  spiritual  life  and  earnestness. 
Why,  a  man  may  be  in  the  company  of  a  real 
prophet  a  long  time  and  not  know  it ;  he  may  even 
see  the  prophet's  fervour,  and  inherit  some  share  of 
the  prophet's  fame,  and  yet  not  see  the  prophet  ; 
and  the  prophet's  very  simplicity  may  be  a  veil 
which  obscures  him  to  the  hard  worldly  mind.  He 
does  not  see  the  prophet,  and  so  he  suspects  the 
man.  He  may  lie  down  with  him,  eat  with  him, 
sleep  in  the  same  room  with  him,  and  yet  not  see 
the  prophet.  In  reading  the  history  of  the  prophet 
Elisha,  do  we  not  remember  that  well-known  and 
very  eminent  person  the  Rev.  Mr.   Gehazi,  who,  we 


374  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

suppose,  stood  somewhat  in  the  relation  of  a  chaplain 
to  Elisha  ?  Why,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Gehazi  never  saw 
the  prophet ;  he  could  not,  it  was  not  in  him  to  do 
so;  and,  on  one  occasion,  he  took  the  prophet's  staff. 
Fancy!  the  prophet's  staff  in  the  hands  of  Gehazi! 
It  became  a  dry  stick  ;  it  would  not  act  at  all  ;  it 
altered  its  behaviour ;  to  call  the  dead  to  life  was 
a  hard  thing,  indeed  an  impossible  thing.  The  spirit 
departed  from  the  staff ;  dead  remained  the  child  ; 
and  the  staff  was  a  dead  staff  in  the  hand  of  a 
dead  soul. 

We  die,  we  pass  away,  and,  as  we  have  often 
said,  ministers  are  soon  forgotten  ;  and,  as  a  rule, 
those  whose  work  is  most  abiding  are  soonest  for- 
gotten. They  have  the  tardiest  recognition  on  earth, 
but  they  have  an  ultimate  resurrection.  And  it  is 
a  grand  condition  of  labour  that  the  longer  the 
time  which  elapses  between  the  seedtime  and  the 
harvest,  the  more  glorious  is  the  harvest,  and  the 
more  precious  the  fruit.  The  further  off  therefore 
we  place  our  aim,  the  less  we  desire  to  be  our- 
selves the  witnesses  of  our  triumph,  the  more 
illustrious  will  be  the  measure  of  our  success  ;  the 
loftiest  expectation  will  receive  the  most  illustrious 
crown.  "He  that  soweth  to  the  Spirit  shall  reap 
life  everlasting."  On  the  whole,  we  believe,  the 
noblest,  most  illustriously  unselfish  minister  we  ever 
knew  was  Benjamin  Parsons,  of  Ebley,  in  Gloucester- 
shire ;  he  was  an  orator,  a  wit,  a  scholar ;  he 
was  one  of  the  earliest  leaders  of  the  temperance 
reformation.  He  was  the  author  of  the  fine  essay 
called  "Anti-Bacchus."  He  seems  to  us,  so  far  as 
human    nature    could    be    perfect,    a    perfect    man. 


BENJAMIN  PARSONS  AT  HOME.  375 

He  never  had  from  his  church  more  than  £\^o  z. 
year,  for  a  large  portion  of  his  Hfe  only  about  ;^ioo. 
But  what  poor  things  our  great  popular  London 
ministers  look  by  his  side !  We  shall  never  forget 
sitting  with  him  by  his  fireside  in  family  worship — 
and  his  family  worship  was  the  most  perfect  thing 
of  that  kind  we  ever  knew ; — we  were  reading  from 
Timothy  ;  we  came  to  that  text,  "  Neglect  not  the 
gift  that  is  in  thee."  It  was  his  constant  method  to 
draw  out  in  the  family  the  full  force  and  meaning 
of  a  Greek  word.  A  friend  of  ours  was  telling 
us  some  time  since  how  he,  crossing  the  Atlantic,  with 
one  of  our  eminent  ministers,  inquired  of  him  on  the 
deck,  what  he  thought  of  our  recent  New  Testa- 
ment Revision  ;  the  eminent  Bow-wow  said,  "  I  do 
not  want  a  Revision ;  I  am  the  Revision!"  Benjamin 
Parsons  would  never  have  said  that,  but  he  really 
was  that.  On  this  particular  morning,  when  we  came 
to  that  text,  "  Neglect  not  the  gift  that  is  in  thee  " — 
"Stir  up  the  gift  that  is  in  thee" — "Richard,"  he 
said,  addressing  his  eldest  son,  "  Richard,  what  is 
that  Greek  word  we  have  {ox  stir  up?"  "Ana  zoo 
pyrein.  Papa."  "Milly"  (to his  eldest  daughter),  "there 
are  three  words  ;  what  are  they,  and  what  do  they 
mean  .-•  "  "  Ana  signifying  np,  zoo  signifying  life,  and 
pyr  signifying  firel'  "  So,  then,"  he  said,  "  you  see, 
literally  they  mean  Give  life  to  the  fire ;  what  a 
forcible  word  !  we  have  no  word  in  English  exactly 
like  it."  Even  while  he  was  speaking  the  fire  in  the 
grate  was  dull  ;  it  furnished  too  good  an  illustration 
to  be  allowed  to  pass  ;  he  pointed  to  it.  "  See,"  he 
said,  "  this  fire  needs  the  poker ;  if  we  do  not  take 
the  poker  and  stir  it,  it  will  quickly  go  out  altogether ; 


376  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

there  are  the  materials  for  a  good  fire,  but  I  must 
stir  the  fire  to  make  it  burn  brightly,  and  I  must 
take  care  how  I  stir  it.  Mental  materials  are  not 
only  necessary,  but  activity  to  give  them  life  and 
ventilation.  We  all  have  gifts,  and  fires  within 
ourselves,  but  they  all  need  stirring,  or  they  will 
never  burn."  And  so  he  struck  the  dull  coal  and 
kindled  into  life  the  lambent  flame,  saying,  as  he 
did  so,  "  Don't  forget  that  you  all  have  the  gift, 
the  fire  within  you,  but  it  will  only  burn  as  you  stir 
it.  Thus  it  is  that  we  need  to  arouse  the  whole 
man  of  the  mind  and  of  the  soul,  and  to  quicken 
the  sensibility,  the  intellect,  and  the  heart."  This 
was  the  way  in  which  our  friend  read  the  Scriptures 
in  his  family  every  day.  He  was  no  dry  stick,  but 
a  wondrously  living  coal* 

After  all,  it  is  for  ever  true  that  the  eye  can  only 
see  what  it  is  fitted  to  see — "  we  receive  but  what  we 
give  "  ;  to  the  dull  mind  all  is  dull  ;  and  thus,  while 
it  is  true  that  a  dull  preacher  makes  a  dtdl  audience, 
it  is  equally  true  that  a  dull  audience  makes  a  dull 
preacher.  It  is  not  therefore  very  wonderful  that  it 
is  often  the  case  that  there  is  a  dignity  in  dulness  ; 
and  it  is  significant  that,  very  frequently,  a  man  will 
make  his  way  in  the  world  only  provided  he  is  but 
dull  enough,  wooden.  Fancy  that,  a  race  of  wooden 
parsons  ;  not  a  very  remote  or  impossible  concep- 
tion ;  and,  in  truth,  we  have  known  such  ;  we  have 
heard  of  one  so  impressed  with  the  importance  of 
dulness  as  an  element  of  ministerial  usefulness,  that 
he  made  it  a  matter  of  prayer  :    "  O  Lord,  make  me 

•  "  The    Earnest   Minister  :    Life   of   the    Rev.    Benjamin 
Parsons,  of  Ebley."     By  Edwin  Paxton  Hood.     1856. 


*'THE  DEACON'S  ONE-HORSE  SHAY:*       377 

dull  enough  that  I  may  be  able  to  overtake  the 
stupidity  of  my  congregation."  There  are  many 
who  have  no  necessity  to  pray  that  prayer.  And 
let  us  remember  that  a  dwW preacher  is  not  necessarily 
either  a  bad  or  an  ineffective  teacher  ;  he  may 
have  v^isdom,  that  is  something  to  say,  but  lack 
mouth,  that  is  the  power  to  say  it."  Perhaps  we 
should  find  our  idea  of  dryness  and  dulness  in  a  set 
of  wordy  demonstrations,  unrelated  to  humanity  or 
to  life,  in  which  it  must  be  admitted  many  indulge  ; 
like  "The  Deacon's  One-horse  Shay,"  useless, 
purposeless,  perfect  in  art  and  plan,  but  uninfluential 
on  the  affections,  inoperative  on  the  life  : — 

"Although  the  deacon's  (or  preacher's)  art 
Had  made  it  so  Hke  in  every  part, 
That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start ; 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills^ 
And  thejioor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  stllSf 
And  \.\\e  panels  iust  as  strong  as  ih.&  Jloor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back  cross-bar  as  strong  as  Xho-fore^ 
And  spring,  and  axle,  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it's  past  a  doubt, 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ; 
First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill. 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dunce^ 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once. 
End  of  the  wonderful  one-horse  shay ; 
Logic  is  logic,  that's  all  I  say." 

But  it  is  a  tedious  business  for  a  man  to  talk 
when  he  has  nothing  to  say,  "  when  he  follows  his 
own  spirit  and  sees  nothing."  Sees  nothing !  for  we 
began  by  saying  that  the  eye  can  only  see  what  it 


378  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

is  fitted  to  see.  We  remember  to  have  had,  some 
time  since,  what  constitutes  a  pair  of  singular  instances 
of  the  different  ways  in  which  two  very  reh'gious  men 
will  contemplate  works  of  art.  In  Venice  we  were 
accosted  by  a  brother  minister,  a  Scotchman.  He 
went  into  ecstacies  when  he  saw  us.  "  Now,"  he  said, 
"  you  know  Venice  well ;  I  do  not."  Then  he  im- 
plored us,  as  his  stay  was  short,  to  tell  him  what  he 
ought  to  see.  We  were,  however,  unable  to  accom- 
pany him,  possibly  because  we  thought  he  would  not 
be  a  very  interesting  companion  ;  but  we  sent  him 
to  the  Picture  Gallery,  and  we  charged  him  to  be 
sure  and  pay  particular  attention  to  the  pearl  of  the 
gallery,  Titian's  Assumption  of  the  Virgin.  We  met 
him  at  dinner,  and  asked  him  what  he  thought  of 
it ;  we  meant,  how  he  felt  on  looking  at  it.  "  Man," 
he  said,  "  I  never  lookit  at  it  at  all  ;  I  dinna  like  sic 
things."  "  In  the  name  of  all  art,"  we  said,  "  why  ?" 
"Because,"  said  he,  "it's  a  heap  o'  lies  ;  all  such  pictures 
are  a  heap  o'  lies  altogether,  with  their  Virgins,  and 
Magdalens,  and  Madonnas,  and  saints,  and  martyrs, 
and  Assumptions;  and  that  Assumption  picture  is  the 
greatest  heap  o'  lies  of  all."  "What  do  you  mean?" 
we  said.  "Why,  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  "is  this,  that 
I  have  no  pleasure  in  looking  upon  such  things, 
because  zvhat  is  false  in  theology  can  never  be  true 
in  arty  And  it  is  possible  that  some  may  feel  a  great 
respect  for  that  brother  ;  well,  never  mind  who  it  was. 
We  left  Venice,  and  on  our  way  home,  at  Lucerne, 
we  met  with  another  brother  minister,  who  also  shall 
be  nameless,  although  well  known.  We  were  com- 
paring notes  of  our  impressions  of  some  of  the  great 
galleries,  when  we  referred   to  Murillo's    celebrated 


TWO    WAYS   OF  SEEING.  379 


picture  of  the  Annunciation  in  the  Louvre  of  Paris, 
one  of  the  most  priceless  gems  of  art  in  Europe  ;  and 
our  friend,  although  rigidly  Protestant  enough,  went 
off  into  raptures  upon  the  marvellous  picture  of  the 
sacred  mother,  surrounded  by  the  wonderful  clouds 
of  cherubs'  faces,  a  crowd  of  baby  faces  and  forms 
all  gathering  in  love  round  the  ascending  mother 
Mary.  Matchless  beauty  broke  out  to  his  eye  all 
over  the  canvas.  "  Why,"  said  we,  "  what  did  you 
see  there  ?  What  did  it  say  to  you  > "  We  thought 
of  our  friend  in  Venice,  and  we  said,  "  You  know  it 
is  altogether  false  !  "  "  False  !  "  he  said ;  "  w/iy,  that 
picture  is  the  revelation  of  the  consecration  of  maternity. 
What  Murillo  really  meant  to  say  I  do  not  know, 
but  what  he  has  said  is  that  through  Mary,  the  mother 
of  02ir  blessed  Lord,  there  comes  a  blessing  upon  all 
babes,  and  infant  faces  are  glad  because  she  was  the 
mother  of  our  Redeemer.  By  the  birth  of  that  babe 
and  suckling  the  Lord  ordained  strength  to  still  the 
enemy  and  the  avenger.  And  it  seemed  to  justify  a 
reading  of  that  text  in  i  Timothy  ii.  IS,  'She 
shall  be  saved  in  child-bearing,' — that  is,  by,  or 
through,  the  one  great  child-bearing,  applying  the 
blessing  to  the  Saviour  as  the  offspring  of  Mary's 
maternal  hour."* 

Such  were  two  ways  of  looking  at  a  picture,  two 
very  different  ways  in  which  the  same  thing  may 
strike  different  pairs  of  eyes,  showing  how  things  of 


*  And  we  may  say  here  that,  in  the  Revised  Version,  this 
is  given  ;  the  word  the  is  substituted  for  in.  The  woman  shall 
be  saved  not  in  child-bearing  !— alas  that  is  not  always  so— 
but  she  shall  be  saved  by  the  child-bearing.  A  wonderful 
text,  we  think. 


38o  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  SUCKS. 

art,  which  seem  to  one  pair  all  rubbish  or  superstition 
are  to  another  full  of  wonder  and  beauty. 

But  this  leads  to  the  remark  that  dryness  and 
dulness  arise,  usually,  from  the  uninteresting  point 
of  view  from  whence  the  truth  is  seen. 

Do  we  speak  in  language  too  daring  when  we 
say  we  cannot  conceive  how  a  preacher  can  be  unin- 
teresting .''  For  do  but  consider  that  the  whole  uni- 
verse in  which  we  live  is  written  all  over  with  moral 
and  spiritual  analyses  and  significances,  which  the 
preacher,  by  the  key  and  aid  of  revelation,  is  to  inter- 
pret and  to  expound  ;  nature  is  a  system  of  hierogly- 
phic language  which  he  is  to  read  to  his  people,  dry 
and  dead, 

"  As  a  desolate  tree  with  its  branches  bare, 
Drinking  frost  from  sunbeams  and  winter  from  summer  air." 

To  the  unenlightened  eye  and  the  untrained  heart, 
by  the  light  of  revelation  every  bush  burns  with 
fire. 

We  know  that  we  appear  to  have  fallen  upon 
another  and  a  different  age,  an  age  concerning 
which  the  language  of  Pope  may  be  regarded  as 
almost  prophetic.  Has  not  the  beautiful  and  glorious 
old  Greek  word  esthetic  become  a  mockery,  a  by- 
word, and  a  scorn,  the  very  satire  even  of  the  stage  ? 

*'  As,  at  some  dread  approach  and  secret  might, 
Art  after  art  goes  out,  and  all  is  night ; 
See  skulking  Truth  to  her  own  cavern  fled, 
Mountains  of  casuistry  heaped  o'er  her  head; 
Philosophy,  that  leaned  on  heaven  before. 
Sinks  to  a  second  cause,  and  is  no  more; 
Physic  of  Metaphysic  begs  defence, 
And  Metaphysic  calls  for  aid  to  Sense ; 


WONDERS  OF  NITROGEN.  381 


See  Mystery  to  Mathematics  fly — 
In  vain  they  gaze,  turn  giddy,  rave,  and  die. 
Religion,  blushing,  veils  her  sacred  fires; 
And,  unawares.  Morality  expires." 

On  the  other  hand,  is  there  not  something 
luminous  when  the  preacher  holds  up  the  lamp  of 
revelation,  to  show  its  light  along  the  wonderful 
vaults,  halls,  and  corridors  of  nature  ?  How  sublime, 
for  instance,  are  the  researches  and  conclusions  of 
chemistry  ;  we  know  not  how  to  express  our  reverence, 
our  admiration,  our  awe,  our  delight  ;  we  know 
neither  whither  to  turn,  nor  where  to  rest  ;  our  heart 
is  moved  when  we  think  of  the  infinite  invisible 
wonders  which  go  on  in  silence  round  us, 

"  .         .         .         .        .         .      finished,  yet  renewed  for  ever ; 

You  breathe,  you  inhale,  you  exhale,  a  world  you   do  not 
see." 

Talk  of  wonders,  of  mysteries  in  religion  !  we 
wish  one  could  give  to  us  a  more  clear  and  distinct 
account  of  nitrogen.  You  understand  it  is  a  prime 
essential  to  your  life  ;  you  breathe  it.  It  is  a  wonder- 
ful power,  our  good  friend  nitrogen,  it  is  the  most 
wonderful  power  in  the  world,  and  yet  all  its  powers 
are  negative. 

**  We  hear  it  not,  we  see  it  not, 

E'en  when  its  terrors  move  us, 
Yet  viewless,  printless,  echoless, 
Its  steps  are  always  round  us." 

It  is  like  a  mutual  friend.  It  goes  about  among 
all  parties,  and  makes  peace  with  all.  It  is 
like  cheerful  good-humour  coming  into  a  com- 
pany where   all  are   turbid    and   troublesome  ;    that 


382  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 


subtle,  fiery-tempered  oxygen,  that  wild,  vehement, 
passionate  hydrogen,  nitrogen  comes  between 
them,  and  represses,  and  allays.  If  you  only  get 
rid  of  him, — we  say  it  seriously,  and  you  know  it; 
we  hope  the  reader  will  forgive  the  coarse  strength 
of  the  phrase,  but  we  say  it, — you  get  rid  of  nitrogen, 
and  it  would  be  hell  broken  loose.  If  we  could  only 
have  enough  and  not  too  much  of  him  everywhere, 
we  could  not  come  to  grief  We  make  our  gun 
cotton  by  getting  rid  of  him  ;  and  then  a  spark,  just 
a  little  too  much,  and  our  world  is  torn  to  pieces. 
And  yet  our  friend  has  no  colour,  no  odour,  is 
entirely  devoid  of  any  active  properties  ;  in  his 
solitary  company  a  flame  could  not  live  ;  he  has  no 
chemical  affections ;  but  he  is  the  ballast  of  the 
atmosphere,  gives  density  and  weight  to  the 
atmosphere  ;  he  especially  keeps  that  nimble  and 
fiery  oxygen  in  his  place,  gives  a  lymphatic  body 
to  a  spirit  which  would  otherwise  utterly  impair 
and  destroy  all  surrounding  order  and  life.  Were  it 
not  for  this  inertness,  what  would  be  the  consequences 
if  those  conditions  were  easy  by  which  the  union  of 
oxygen  and  nitrogen,  mixed  blandly  and  happily 
together  in  the  air,  were  so  chemically  combined  as  to 
pour  down  in  floods  of  nitric  acid  "i  Again,  slightly 
alter  the  equipoise  of  the  atmosphere,  and  it  pours 
down  upon  you  in  floods  of  nitrous  oxide,  or  laughing 
gas,  and  the  risibility  of  the  atmosphere  would  be  the 
death  of  the  race.  Nitrogen  we  always  regard  as 
one  of  the  most  stupendous  mysteries  in  nature  ; 
no  chemist  has  ever  yet  discerned  it,  and  yet  we  are 
worse  than  nothing  without  it.  An  invisible  agent 
proclaims  its  presence  ;  we  cannot  touch  it,  cannot 


A   BLESSED  PEACEMAKER.  383 

see  it,  cannot  smell  it,  and  yet  the  chemist  is  sure 
of  its  existence  ;  it  modifies  everything,  itself  un- 
apprehended ;  without  it  all  is  disorder.  Its  balance 
slightly  disturbed,  everything  falls  into  ruin  ;  oxygen 
then  becomes  a  raging  fire  ;  hydrogen  becomes  an 
explosive  demon.  Nitrogen,  like  a  blessed  peace- 
maker, keeps  all  in  order  ;  it  is  the  conservative 
influence  of  the  world  in  which  we  live.  We  often 
wonder  if  chemistry  will  ever  know  it  better ;  it 
ought  to  fill  our  minds  with  awe  to  think  that  we 
are  perpetually  in  the  presence  of  such  an  unac- 
countable agent,  and  that  before  it  the  lamp  of 
science  is  foiled,  and  as  we  hold  it  up  we  are  like  a 
man  with  a  light  in  a  room  in  which  he  sees 
phantoms  he  cannot  touch,  and  hears  noises  the 
causes  of  which  he  cannot  detect ;  and  still  he  holds 
the  lamp,  and  is  aware  of  the  presence  that  disturbs 
him,  but  it  will  not  enter  into  his  knowledge,  and  he 
cannot  account  for  it.      But  he  knows  ! 

The  preacher  never  attains  to  a  real  platform  of 
power  until  he  feels  that  he  stands  in  the  midst  of 
a  region  of  metaphysical  life,  that  not  only  human 
nature  is  essentially  metaphysical,  that  it  is  not  the 
least  physical,  but,  on  the  contrary,  entirely  meta- 
physical, while  nature  herself  is  metaphysical  too, 
for  the  metaphysical  is  at  once  the  foundation,  the 
corner-stone,  and  the  pinnacle  of  all  natural  facts. 
We  are  obliged  to  go  behind  nature,  and  beyond 
nature,  to  obtain  the  slightest  solution  of  any  of  the 
facts  of  nature  ;  the  physical  is  only  "  the  night  side 
of  nature,"  haunted  by  spectres  ;  it  is  only  in  the 
metaphysical  that  we  see  the  morning  spread  upon 
the  mountains,  and  the  day  break,  and   the  shadows 


384  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

flee  away.  We  would  sum  up  most  of  the  teachings 
and  inductions  of  the  scientists  of  our  time,  our 
Darwins,  Tyndalls,  and  Huxleys, — great  men,  for 
whom  we  have  a  profound  respect,  and  to  whom,  in 
their  own  particular  walk,  we  feel  a  great  indebtedness 
of  gratitude, — as  the  wanderings  of  a  philosopher  in 
the  search  of  a  genesis.  Forest  matter,  they  tell  us, 
makes  up  the  whole  of  the  universe.  They  might 
as  well  tell  us  that  a  coach  and  horses  can  get  on 
without  a  coachman,  or  an  engine,  car,  and  coals 
without  a  driver.  Very  truly  says  Mr.  Froude,  "  In 
Scotland"  (he  might  have  added,  in  other  places  also) 
"  wretched  old  women  were  supposed  to  run  about 
in  the  country  in  the  shape  of  hares.  At  this  very 
hour  the  ablest  living  natural  philosopher  is  looking 
gravely  to  the  courtship  of  moths  and  butterflies  to 
solve  the  problem  of  the  origin  of  man,  and  to  prove 
his  descent  from  an  African  baboon.  What  the 
thing  is  we  call  ourselves  we  know  not.  It  may  be 
true — I,  for  one,  care  not  if  it  be — that  the  descent 
of  our  mortal  bodies  may  be  traced,  through  an 
ascending  series,  to  some  glutinous  organism  on  the 
rocks  of  the  primeval  ocean.  It  is  nothing  to  me 
how  the  Maker  of  me  has  been  pleased  to  construct 
the  perishable  frame  which  I  call  my  body.  It  is 
mine  \  it  is  not  me ;  the  nous,  the  intellectual  spirit, 
being  an  ousia,  an  essence,  we  believe  to  be  an  in- 
corruptible something  which  has  been  engendered 
in  us  from  another  source."  Science  cannot  go 
behind  the  senses,  but  the  whole  stream  and  tendency 
of  science  leads  on  to  the  acknowledgment  of  the 
Infinite  Presence  and  Personality,  greater  than  all 
science,  of  whose  ways  science  is  simply  an  empirical 


SCIENTIFIC  CREDULITY.  385 


discoverer  at  best,  higher  than    all  physics  and   all 
nature,  and  to  whom  the  circle  of  the  whole  round 
universe  is  a  thing,  is  a  something  outside  of  Himself. 
Science  is  very  useful  when  it  manipulates  the  forces 
of  nature,  and  seeks,  out  of  nature,  to  discover  the 
means  of  harnessing  and  binding  them  for  the  benefit 
of  man,  but  when  it  attempts  to  discover  the  genesis 
either   of  nature  or  of  man,   it  does   nothing   more 
than  reveal  its  own  insanity,  it  becomesthe  victim  of 
superstitious  follies.      So,  that,  in  the  presence  of  the 
great  savants,  the  lords  of  science  in  our  day,  we 
seem  to  stand  like  Paul,  in  Athens,  in  the  presence  of 
the  Stoics  and  Epicureans,  and  to  be  compelled  to 
say,    " '  In  all  things   I    perceive    that   you  are  too 
superstitious.'     Oh,  gentlemen,  you  believe  too  much 
for  me  !  indeed   you  do  ;  I  cannot  keep  pace  with 
your  credulity." 

Do  we  go  too  far  in  this  ?  Professor  Tyndall 
tells  us  that  "  the  formation  of  a  crystal,  a  plant,  or 
an  animal  is,  to  the  scientific  thinker,  a  purely 
mechanical  problem."  Stalks,  ears  of  corn,  crystals 
of  salt  or  sugar,  animal  bodies,  brain,  and  conscious- 
ness are  all  the  results  of  mechanical  and  molecular 
force,  affairs  of  ordinary  mechanics,  and  no  infinite 
mind  behind  them.  "Everything  that  is  seen  is 
made  of  things  which  are  seen — that  is  of  things 
which  do  appear."  It  is  quite  inconceivable.  It  has 
sometimes  seemed  to  us  that  Professor  Tyndall,  our 
greatest  popular  English  scientist,  has  talked  a 
larger  amount  of  nonsense  than  any  man  living.  He 
endorses  the  extraordinary  and  confusing  sentiment 
of  a  German  philosopher, — "  Without  phosphor  no 
thought  nor  memory  I  "  All  very  fine.    Salmon  have 

25 


386  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

a  good  deal  of  phosphorus  ;  likewise  also,  we  believe, 
there  is  a  good  deal  in  the  ultimate  elements  of 
whiskey,  and,  perhaps,  there  are  some  persons  who 
would  say,  "  Without  whiskey  no  thought" ;  but  neither 
fish  nor  fluid  are  understood  to  be  remarkably 
thoughtful  creations  of  nature  or  of  art.  Some  of 
his  philosophic  prelections  seem  to  be  exquisitely 
funny.  While  joking  with  a  blue-eyed  friend  about 
one  of  his  discoveries  the  other  day,  we  were 
telling  her  of  Tyndall's  conception  of  a  blue  eye.  He 
says  that  "  soap  and  water  will  give  a  tint  of  blue  "  ; 
then  he  relates  some  experiences  among  the  Alpine 
lakes,  where  the  water  is  blue  ;  then  he  continues, 
that  soapy  water  and  blue  lakes  are  alike  resultant 
in  a  turbid  medium  ;  and,  following  up  in  this  wake 
of  suggestive  thought,  he  announces  the  pleasant 
discovery  that  a  blue  eye  is  simply  a  turbid  medium, 
just  the  same  affair  as  soap  and  water  ;  soap  and 
water !  that  is  Professor  Tyndall's  genesis  of  a  blue  eye ! 
A  most  masterly  evolution  of  thought,  certainly.  But 
how  about  dark  hazel  eyes?  But  talking  about  blue 
eyes  leads  him  to  talk  of  blue  skies,  to  the  whole 
expanse  of  the  firmament.  He  says  he  has  enter- 
tained a  notion  about  the  quantity  of  matter  con- 
tained in  the  sky.  "  Now,"  he  says,  "  let  the 
atmospheric  space  be  swept  clean,  and  the  sky-matter 
be  properly  gathered  up;  what  is  its  probable  amount.? 
I  have  sometimes  thought  that  a  lady's  portmanteau 
would  contain  it  all ;  possibly  a  gentleman's  snuff- 
box might  take  it  in.  I  entertain,"  he  says,  "an 
idea  that  a  sky,  quite  as  vast  as  ours,  and  as  good 
in  appearance,  could  be  formed  out  from  a  quantity 
of  matter  which  could  be  held  in  the  hollow  of  the 


PROF.    TYNDALUS  "  GENESIS;'   ETC.       387 

hand."  And  that  is  all  that  Dr.  Tyndall  thinks  when 
he  "considers  the  heavens"  ;  a  pinch  of  snuff— :-that 
is  Professor  Tyndall's  genesis  of  the  firmament  above 
us !  *  Not  a  word  of  Him  who  stretcheth  out  the 
heavens  Hke  a  curtain,  and  spreadcth  them  out  Hke 
a  tent  to  dwell  in.  Thus  to  such  minds,  as  Thomas 
Carlyle  has  said,  "  the  universe  is  no  longer  an 
oracle  and  a  temple,  but  a  kitchen  and  a  cattle 
stall,  and  science  a  chink-lighted  underground  work- 
shop of  logic."  Dr.  Tyndall  goes  to  church  ;  for 
what  purpose  we  shall  see.  We  see,  his  theory  is 
that  man  has  taken  a  long  time  to  make,  but,  in 
the  long  course  of  ages,  the  nebulous  mist  has  at 
last  happened  into  the  shape  of  a  man,  a  human 
soul,  "a  combination  of  molecular  affinities,"  to  speak 
in  the  abominable  slang  of  the  school  ;  God  is 
defined  also  as  the  "potentiality  o{  nebulous  matter!" 
So  a  turbid  medium  has  happened  into  the  pheno- 
menon of  a  blue  eye.  It  is  infinitely  easier  for  faith  to 
conceive  the  supernatural  than  all  this.  But  Tyndall 
goes  to  church,  and  what  does  he  learn  there?  why, — 
we  quote  his  words — "  that  all  devotion  exists  in 
space  as  a  purely  mechanical  effect  of  nature  "  ;  he 
says,  "  I  have  watched  with  deep  interest  and 
sympathy  the  countenances  of  some  praying  women 
in  the  churches  of  the  Continent.  I  have  seen  a 
penitent  kneeling  at  a  distance  from  the  shrine  of 
the  Virgin,  as  if  afraid  to  come  nearer.  Suddenly, 
a  glow  has  overspread  her  countenance,  strengthen- 
ing its  radiance,  till  at  length  her  very  soul  seemed 

•  We  have  been  guilty  of  no  exaggeration  in  this  rendering 
of  Professor  Tyndall's  "  Genesis,"  as  the  reader  may  find  for 
himself  by  reference  to  his  Belfast  addresses. 


388  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

shining  through  her  features  ;  sure  of  her  acceptance, 
she  has  confidently  advanced,  fallen  prostrate,  im- 
mediately in  front  of  the  image,  and  remained  there 
for  a  time  in  silent  ecstacy.  I  have  watched  the 
ebbing  of  the  spiritual  tide,  and  remarked  the  felicitous 
repose  which  it  left  behind.  At  each  new  phase  of 
emotion,  the  timbre  of  the  woman's  countenance 
changed,  and  the  music  breathing  from  her  face 
became  altered  in  quality."  We  believe  we  do  no 
injustice  to  this  passage  in  speaking  of  it  as  heart- 
less and  brutal,  its  object  being  simply  to  show 
that  all  religious  feeling,  all  devotion  is  a  trick  of 
the  blood,  that  it  is,  in  fact,  heat  considered  as  a  mode 
of  motion  !  Warmth  in  the  blood  !  that  is,  with 
Professor  Tyndall,  the  "  genesis  "  of  the  sorrows  of 
the  soul,  and  its  consolation  in  devotion  ! 

We  have  already  spoken  of  the  false  finery  of  the 
pulpit  ;  but  it  would  be  very  easy  to  deliver  a 
lecture  on  the  false  finery  of  science  also.  Men  of 
science  are  exceedingly  fond  of  telling  ministers 
that  they  know  nothing  of  science  nor  of  scientific 
facts  ;  curious,  if  true,  for  we  also  are  able  to  read 
and  to  think  ;  we  are  not  quite  fools,  and  we  are 
able  to  put  this  and  that  together  ;  in  our  time  we 
have  not  only  read  a  little  of  our  Plato,  but  a  little 
of  our  Aristotle  too,  have  looked  a  little  into  Euclid, 
and  made  ourselves  familiar  with  the  words  of  the 
master  of  these  gentlemen.  Bacon's  "  Novum  Or- 
ganum,"  a  manual  which  is  our  admiration  and  our  joy. 
Strange  that  we  should  be  able  to  follow  the  teach- 
ings of  the  master,  but  are  dunces  too  dull  to  make 
out  the  meaning  of  the  disciples !  However  that 
may  be,  we  seem  to  have  attained  to  this,  that  no 


SCIENCE  FALSELY  SO-CALLED.  389 

doctrines  about  the  composition  and  correlation  of 
natural  forces  are  at  all  able  to  account  to  us  for 
the  fact,  for  instance,  that  to  us  the  wind,  whispering 
among  the  boughs  of  trees,  can  persuade  music  out 
of  anything  :  the  string  tied  across  a  window,  a 
hollow  stone,  the  old  bell,  even  when  the  old  sexton 
has  no  hand  upon  the  rope,  or  the  waves  of  the  sea 
as  they  lisp  and  plash  on  the  shingle  or  the  sand. 
We  know  that  melody  and  music  are  all  made  up 
of  number  ;  but  that  number  should  affect  us  so, 
poor  combination  of  molecular  affinities  that  we  are, 
is  passing  strange.  How  is  it  .''  ivJiere  is  it .''  and  wJiat 
is  it }  The  philosopher  may  say  what  he  likes,  but 
to  us  it  is  really  metaphysical. 

Thus  a  great  deal  of  all  this  so-called  philosophy, 
Tyndall's  science  and  Bain's  metaphysics  and  psycho- 
logy, reminds  us  of  a  curious  surprise  in  London, 
the  other  day,  when  one  of  those  mighty  Hindoo 
rajahs  came  over  ;  he  was  to  be  presented  at  court  ; 
he  had  brought  with  him,  as  he  thought,  about  a 
quarter  of  a  million's  worth  of  precious  stones,  and 
he  desired  to  wear  them  all  ;  he  went  with  them  to 
an  eminent  lapidary  and  jewel-setter  to  have  them 
all  polished  and  reset  for  his  attire  ;  he  desired  to 
appear — may  we  say  it  without  giving  offence  .'' — as  a 
very  great  swell  indeed.  He  was  told  he  must  wait 
four  hours  ;  but  in  less  than  two  hours,  they  told 
him  again  that  the  jewels  were  all  not  worth  so 
many  shillings  ;  his  imaginary  wealth  was  not  worth 
so  many  ;  it  had  all  been  changed  in  India! 

It  is  thus  we  have  regarded  many  of  those 
boastful  and  showy-looking  decorations  which  modern 
science  claims  for  its  robe,  so  many  of  them  as  false  as 


390 


LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 


they  seem  to  be  fine.  Now,  amidst  all  these  gewgaw 
vanities  of  interpretation,  the  Christian  minister  carries 
a  live  coal  to  the  altar  of  truth  when  he  takes  the 
Christian  metaphysics  to  the  interpretation  of  nature 
and  of  man,  to  declare  that  this  which  underprops  the 
entire  round  of  nature  is  metaphysical,  as  the  entire 
nature  of  man  is  metaphysical.  We  have  sometimes 
thought  the  chair  of  metaphysics  in  any  university 
is  the  grandest  a  man  can  fill,  to  demonstrate  to 
man  his  soul,  to  separate  his  thought,  and  to  make 
manifest  the  separation  of  the  soul  behind  the  world 
from  the  world  of  beauty  and  terror  around  us  ;  to 
chase  the  flying  spirit  of  life  through  all  its  material 
forms,  until,  at  last,  it  retreats  into  the  Infinite  Mind 
and  Will  ;  to  see  ho>?/  all  things  indeed  exist  in 
number,  weight,  and  measure,  but  to  run  up  the 
mighty  diapason  of  nature  into  the  hands  of  the 
infinite  Master-builder,  who  weighed  the  mountains 
in  scales,  and  the  hills  in  a  balance.  "  Lo,  He  that 
formeth  the  mountains,  and  createth  the  wind,  and 
dedaretJi  unto  man  what  is  his  thought,  that  maketh 
the  morning  darkness,  and  treadeth  upon  the  high 
places  of  the  earth,  the  Lord,  The  God  of  hosts 
is  His  name." 

Surely  science  teaches  the  instrumentality  of  all 
nature  ;  all  nature  is  an  organ  ;  the  infinite  spirit  is 
unseen,  but  surely  felt.  Every  object  is  a  tube 
through  which  the  Divine  Spirit  breathes  ;  man  is 
the  key,  or  keys,  and  God  is  the  Divine  finger 
touching,  and  waking  all  into  harmony.  Nature  is 
dead,  like  an  organ  till  the  breath  inspires,  till  the 
finger  touches  it  ;  nature  is  first  a  chaos,  then  a 
corpse ;  as   in    the   building   of   that   wonderful    in- 


ALL  NATURE  AN  ORGAN.  391 

strument  and  arrangement  of  human  workmanship 
the  organ,  it  is  at  first  a  mass  of  planks  and  lumps 
of  lead,  until  all  the  difficulties  are  overcome,  all 
the  separate  interests  united  together,  until  all  is 
complete :  wooden  frame,  leaden  tubes,  ivory  keys, 
and  then,  and  now,  music,  speaking  to  please  and 
charm.  Such  thoughts  lead  up  to  the  question, 
Shall  man  less  fulfil  the  purpose  of  his  creation?  Now 
the  imagination  is  everything  to  nature  ;  nature 
without  it — that  is  without  the  interpreting  soul — • 
we  have  likened  to  the  great  organ  in  the  cathedral, 
or  great  hall,  without  the  player;  it  is  a  thing ;  but 
when  the  player  touches  it,  it  becomes  dipozver.  The 
organ  sits  alone  in  the  great  church,  like  a  huge, 
weird,  looming,  and  will-less  spectre,  through  the 
long  days,  through  the  long  silent  nights  ;  the  storm 
sounds  over  the  roof,  and  there  are  storms  in  the 
heart  of  the  old  organ,  but  it  cannot  speak  them  ! 
and  the  long  sunbeams  or  moonbeams  stream 
through  the  tesselated  windows,  and  there  is  no 
star  so  remote  but  that  old  organ  could  fetch  forth 
from  its  dark  chamber  a  tone  to  sound  its  heights 
or  depths;  but  it  dwells  alone,  speechless  and  silent ! 
But  when  the  man  comes  who  can  make  the 
harmony,  the  Handel  who  strikes  the  keys,  and  bids 
the  flutes  move  and  the  thunders  roll,  some  sublime 
deaf  Beethoven,  rearing  his  perfect  palace  of  sound 
in  an  architecture  invisible  to  sight,  himself,  the 
very  player,  all  isolated  and  lone,  the  music,  all 
within  himself,  makes  dead  things  respond  into 
beauty  at  his  touch.  As  the  panorama  of  shadow 
sounds  goes  floating  by,  and  thus  hard  material 
productions  lead  to  the  perception  of  their  signifi- 


392  LIVE  COALS  AND  DRY  STICKS. 

cance  to  invisible  things,  so  from  unshapely  iron 
violins,  and  giant  harps  made  of  iron,  and  huge 
unfeeling  trees,  and  surging  flames,  we  seem  to  reach 
out  to  the  thought  that,  like  the  musician,  we  are 
surrounded  by  a  universe  which  will  break  out 
into  melody,  and  only  waits  the  master  finger  or 
the  master  voice  to  enable  it  to  do  so.  Then, 
when  the  master  voice  is  heard,  he  finds  himself  in 
the  presence,  as  in  the  mighty  Hindoo  poem,  of  the 
God  who  kindles,  the  God  of  celestial  fire — He  who 
troubles  the  air,  and  fires  the  clouds,  and  touches 
the  thoughts  of  man  with  flame  ;  whose  mantle  is 
the  changeful  sky,  the  crimson,  the  gold,  and  the 
amethyst  ;  whose  wrath  is  in  the  east  wind,  when 
the  trees  are  wrenched  and  crushed  back  again  to 
earth,  when  the  sand  is  torn  up  in  eddies,  and  the 
white  salt  dust  of  the  sea  is  flung  in  the  face  of 
heaven  ;  whose  laughter  is  the  sunlight,  and  His 
grief  is  the  clouds  when  they  give  forth  their  rain — 
and  he  worships  with  reverence  the  Mighty,  the 
Exalted,  the  Undecaying  and  Ever-young. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 
JAMES  STRATTEN. 

IT  is  affecting  to  notice  how  often  the  mightiest 
and  most  effective  preachers  pass  away,  and  in 
a  short  time  leave  scarce  a  memory  behind  them. 
We  have  remarked  this  in  several  instances  ;  it 
impresses  us  at  present  in  the  instance  before  us. 
James  Stratten  was  never  what  is  ordinarily  called 
a  popular  preacher,  not  popular  in  the  sense  in 
which  James  Parsons  or  Henry  Melvill  was  popular; 
yet  during  the  many  years  of  his  ministry  at  Padding- 
ton  Chapel,  that  place,  then  one  of  the  largest  in 
London,  was  always  crowded,  and  crowded  by  one 
of  the  most  select  congregations  of  any  Noncon- 
formist community  around.  It  is  interesting  to 
know  that  the  first  pulpit  ministrations  which  met 
the  ears  of  Robert  Browning  and  his  wonderful  wife, 
Elizabeth  Barrett,  were  from  those  accomplished 
lips  ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  detect  in  Mrs.  Browning's 
poems  the  least  of  the  teaching  beneath  which  she 
had  been  trained. 

Mr,  Stratten  did  not  very  frequently  leave  his  own 
pulpit  ;  clearly  his  tastes  and  ideas  were  not  such 
as  easily  to  mingle  in  every  variety  of  place,  or  hurry 
of  service.  He  was  formed  rather  to  instruct  than 
to  attract,  to  charm  and   awe  by  a  weighty  manner 


394  JAMES  STRATTEN. 

by  passages    of  that  exquisitely  refining  description 
which  it  takes   some  taste  in  a  hearer  to  appreciate 
and  to  follow.      He  had  few  of  the  faculties  of  the 
man  of  action,  and  preferred  rather  to  work  thoughts 
and   emotions   into   maturity,   than   to   present  their 
surface,  or  their  crude  outlines  to  the  people  ;  yet 
there  was  an  irresistible  power  in  the  preaching  of 
the  man.      We  judge  from   a  simple  test  :  we  were 
about  seven  years  of  age  when  we   heard   him   first, 
in  the  chapel  of  our  then  constant  visitation,  the  Old 
Tabernacle    in   Greenwich  ;    and   the   text   and    the 
sermon     continued     impressively    engraven    on     our 
mind  and  memory.      Yet  we  saw  and  heard  no  more 
of  it  until    its  publication   nearly   forty  years  after- 
wards, in  the  "  Intermediate   State,  and  other  Dis- 
courses."     The  incisive  manner  of  Mr.  Stratten  may 
be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  we  were  able  at  that 
distance  of  time  to  detect  several  instances  in  which 
he  had  corrected  the  sermon  as  we  heard  it ;   and,  as 
often   happens  when  sermons   are  corrected   for   the 
press,  the  correction   did   not    seem  to  be  improve- 
ment.    When  we   have    said   that  Mr.   Stratten  was 
not  of  the  order  of  popular  ministers,  although  for 
forty-two  years  sustaining  his  ministry  in  a  congre- 
gation crowded,  and  so  admiring,  we  must  yet  admit, 
even  before  we  enter  upon  the  characteristic  qualities 
of  his  sermons,  that  his  manner  had  with  it  a  way 
and   mood  of  uncommon  power.      He  was  tall,  with 
a   face    so    dark,    expressing  the    most    melancholy 
temperament  ;  an  expression  on  the  face,  when  utter- 
ing darker  shades  of  thought,  not  less  than  terrible, 
yet  strangely  lighting  up  by  a  singular  and  ineffable 
sweetness,  that  always,  as  does   such    light  in    the 


THE  FACE  AN  INDEX  TO   THE  LIFE.      395 

storm  time,  forbids  one  to  think  of  the  black  cloud 
and  the  roaring  tempest.  "  I  have,"  said  one  of  his 
hearers  in  those  days  to  us  once,  "seen  in  the  pulpit, 
on  the  face  of  Mr,  Stratten,  as  much  of  the  seraph 
as  I  ever  expect  to  see  this  side  of  eternity.  I 
must  also  say,"  he  continued,  "  I  have  seen  upon  his 
face  as  much  of  the  being  who  is  the  opposite  of 
the  seraph,  as  I  ever  care  to  know  at  all."  It  was 
a  grand  impressiveness  ;  sermons  never  read,  save 
once  in  our  experience ;  no  hurry  of  speech,  no 
rapid  interflowing  rhetorical  arrangement  of  words  ; 
slow,  very  quiet,  very  impressive.  The  style  of  the 
preacher  was  quite  his  own  ;  and  we  shall  have 
occasion  to  point  out  how  much  was  gained  by  a 
broken  angularity,  by  a  frequent  abrupt  commence- 
ment of  a  paragraph.  No  style  was  more  calculated 
to  fasten  the  hearer ;  but  it  supposed  a  more  than 
ordinary  measure  of  interest  in  the  hearer's  mind. 
The  hearer  was  never  assailed  by  the  glowing 
attempts,  the  imposing  strokes,  which,  usually,  in 
the  great  preacher  beat  down  all  disposition  to  be 
indifferent.  A  serious  manner  does  not  always  win 
attention.  Some  preachers  look  as  serious  as  the 
wax  figures  at  Madame  Tussaud's,  or  in  a  hair- 
dresser's shop,  but  it  is  ineffectual  ;  one  thinks  of 
what  Charles  James  Fox  said  of  Lord  Sidmouth, 
"  It  is  impossible  for  anybody  ever  to  have  been 
half  so  serious  as  he  looked."  This  mock  solemnity 
is  ridiculous  ;  but  there  is  a  manner  of  the  counte- 
nance which  instantly  commands,  it  is  an  index 
to  the  habit  of  the  life  ;  and  this  gloom  of  manner 
seemed  almost  perpetually  to  brood  over  the  face 
of  this  preacher.      If  we  are  to  designate  the  style  of 


396  JAMES  STRATTEN. 

Mr.  Stratten's  average  discourses,  we  should  speak 
of  them  as  expository — not  critical,  not  exegetical, 
but  expository,  in  standing  by  the  text  read,  fixing 
its  sense,  and  drawing  from  it  its  various  lessons. 
This,  in  his  case,  was  something  more  than  the 
textual  method  ;  he  seldom  wrought  at  a  topic  of 
thought  so  as  to  work  out  an  essay  upon  it,  but  he 
wrought  the  text,  and  turned  round  its  words  quietly, 
holding  them  up  successively  like  prisms,  to  catch 
the  rays  of  spiritual  light.  In  a  singular,  ingenious, 
and  entertaining  little  book,  but  of  no  reputation, 
"  Passages  from  the  Autobiography  of  a  Man  of 
Kent,"  occurs  a  vivid  description  of  an  accomplished 
Nonconformist  minister,  whom  we  are  able  to  identify 
with  Mr.  Stratten,  from  the  sermon  the  "  Man  of 
Kent "  was  so  fortunate  as  to  hear ;  it  appears 
to  have  been  his  first  entrance  into  a  Dissenting 
meeting  house,  and  not  slight  was  his  astonishment. 

"  I  have  the  most  vivid  and  distinct  recollection  of  the 
whole  scene,  as  it  was  entirely  new  to  me,  and  differed 
so  materially  from  the  Church-of-England  services  with 
which  I  had  been  familiar  from  my  childhood.  The  text 
was  from  Isa.  vi.  1-4 ;  and  it  was  a  sermon  on  the 
memorable  Vision  of  the  Prophet  in  the  Temple.  I  can 
recollect  even  now,  at  a  distance  of  more  than  thirty  years, 
the  opening  sentences  of  that  discourse  ;  and  the  marked 
attention  of  the  great  congregation  made  a  deep  and  lasting 
impression  upon  me.  After  reading  the  text  very  deliber- 
ately, the  preacher  looked  up  from  the  Bible,  and,  with 
rather  low  and  chastened  voice,  said  :  *  In  the  year  that 
King  Uzziah  died,  which,  according  to  chronology,  was 
the  year  in  which  Romulus,  the  founder  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  was  born.      In  the  year  that  King  Uzziah  died: 


IMPI?ESSIONS  OF  HIS  PREACHING.       397 


for  kings  must  die.  All  flesh  is  grass,  and  the  goodliness 
thereof  is  as  the  flower  of  grass.  The  boast  of  heraldry, 
the  pomp  of  power,  all  the  beauty,  and  the  wealth  of  the 
world,  await  alike  the  inevitable  hour :  " 

*  *'  The  path  of  glory  leads  but  to  the  grave." 

'Cease  ye  from  man,  whose  breath  is  in  his  nostrils  ; 
for  wherein  is  he  to  be  accounted  of?  But  God  lives; 
He  is  the  everlasting  King  ;  His  throne  endureth  to  all 
generations;  His  dominion  does  not  pass  away;  and  He 
revealed  Himself  in  unwonted  splendour  and  majesty  to 
the  mind  of  His  prophet  in  the  year  that  King  Uzziah 
died.'  The  preacher  then  directed  attention  to  two  points 
from  the  passage  selected.  I.  The  glory  of  God,  as  mani- 
fested in  Christ  Jesus  to  the  prophet's  mind ;  and  H.  The 
manner  in  which  the  seraphim  witnessed  the  deed.  The 
sermon  was  a  full  hour  in  its  delivery,  and  was  one  of 
great  beauty  and  power.  The  preacher  had  no  notes 
before  him,  and  I  was  astonished  at  his  ready  eloquence, 
as  sentence  after  sentence  came  from  his  lips  in  the  most 
natural  and  unaff'ected  manner;  the  language  was  chaste 
and  elegant,  his  elocution  the  best  I  had  ever  heard,  even 
on  the  stage,  and  his  gesture  such  as  would  have  done 
honour  to  John  Kemble  in  his  best  days.  I  went  away 
from  that  chapel  with  a  very  different  opinion  of  Dissenters 
and  their  services  to  that  which  I  had  entertained  all  my 
life.  I  had  always  associated  Dissent  and  Dissenters  with 
ignorance  and  vulgarity,  and  imagined — as  many  other 
Churchmen  do  in  the  present  day — that  their  religion 
was  made  up  mainly  of  cant  and  hypocrisy.  Here, 
,  however,  was  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman — a  man  endowed 
with  the  great  natural  talents  and  acquirements  that  make 
up  an  orator;  and  exhibiting  moreover,  as  I  was  informed, 
in  his  daily  life  the  virtues  that  should  ever  characterize 
and  distinguish  the  minister  of  Christ. 


398  JAMES  STRATTEN. 

We  have  said  the  "  Man  of  Kent "  was  fortunate 
even  in  hearing  Mr.  Stratten.  We  would  have  given 
much  to  have  heard  that  one  sermon.  It  happens 
to  be  one  with  which  we  are  very  famlHar,  and  it 
stands  alone  and  apart,  and  a  model  of  that  peculiar 
order  of  pulpit  eloquence  for  which  the  preacher 
was  distinguished.  If  the  astonished  auditor  had 
ever  heard  John  Kemble  in  Hamlet,  we  do  not 
wonder  that  Mr.  Stratten  suggested  a  reverent  com- 
parison ;  the  dignified,  yet  broken  and  almost  fitful 
moodiness  of  the  soliloquy  must  have  well  fitted  that 
extraordinary  discourse  ;  sustained,  self-possessed,  it 
is  eminently  one  of  those  sermons  in  which,  from 
first  to  last,  the  preacher  seemed  to  have  all  his 
"  singing  robes,"  as  Milton  would  say,  "about  him 
as  he  soared."  We  would  gladly,  were  it  possible, 
give  to  our  readers  this  sermon  as  an  illustration 
of  a  peculiarly  striking  and  yet  most  simple  method 
of  dealing  with  a  text.  We  have  spoken  of  Mr. 
Stratten's  style  as  expository ;  but  this  is  even 
rather  a  paraphrase,  and  it  is  a  sustained  .and  useful 
poem  upon  Isaiah's  vision.  Take  one  closing  para- 
graph; it  is  very  illustrative  of  Mr.  Stratten's  general 
style. 

**^And  one  cried  unto  another/*  One  cried,  and  but 
one ;  they  spake  but  one  at  a  time.  The  text  defines 
what  we  call  a  solo.  '  One  cried  unto  another  and  said. 
Holy,  holy,  holy  is  the  Lord  of  Hosts  !'  There  is  something 
delightful  in  one  voice,  in  one  lark  rising  in  the  heaven, 
or,  when  the  shades  of  evening  come  down,  one  bird — a 
nightingale— warbling  in  the  woods.  One  human  voice 
has  been  known  to  replicate  miraculously,  and  to  fill  the 
ears    of  a  vast   and   death-silent   audience,    the   audience 


THE  POWER    OF  MUSIC.  399 

being  enchanted  by  it,  held  in  the  most  exquisite  captiva- 
tion.  What  shall  it  be  to  hear  a  seraph  sing  !  I  exaggerate 
nothing.  I  come  not  up  to  the  real  import  of  the  text ; 
for  it  is  said  that  when  he  cried,  *  the  posts  of  the  door 
moved  at  the  voice  of  him  that  cried.'  And  they  were 
no  common  posts  ;  they  were  Jachin  and  Boaz,  that  had 
their  names  on  account  of  their  stature,  and  strength, 
and  glory,  but  they  trembled  at  the  seraph's  voice.  I 
have  been  told  that,  on  a  great  musical  occasion  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  in  the  reign  of  George  III.,  there 
was  one  stroke,  a  swell  so  deep  and  so  amazing  that  the 
building  shook,  and  they  were  afraid  of  its  repetition. 
But  let  me  tell  you  that  high  anthems  are  sung  in  heaven. 
When  they  laid  that  stone,  that  poor,  paltry  stone,  at 
the  building  of  the  Second  Temple,  there  was  shouting 
which  filled  all  heaven  again  ;  but  when  Christ's  great 
work  is  done,  when  all  the  myriads  of  the  saints  shall 
be  gathered  home,  and  all  the  unsinning  creatures  in 
His  universe  shall  be  gathered  together  to  be  the  witnesses, 
they  will  raise  such  a  chorus,  they  will  hold  such  an 
anthem,  as  shall  make  the  arches  and  the  canopies  of 
the  universe  to  quiver  again,  and  in  sympathetic  joy. 
And  I  do  believe  that  in  the  heavenly  world  there  will 
be  the  solitary  solo,  and  the  social  worship — worship  by 
twos,  and  by  threes,  and  by  fours,  and  the  great  united 
adoration  of  the  immense  multitudes  of  myriads  who 
shall  come  together  on  high  festive  occasions." 

The  reader,  if  he  never  heard  Mr.  Stratten,  will 
bear  in  mind  that  such  passages  as  these — indeed 
all  his  sermons — were  delivered  in  a  slow,  soliloquizing 
manner;  not  a  finger  was  moved,  scarce  a  movement 
of  the  body,  except  the  occasional  turn  of  the  head  ; 
yet  the  whole  manner  was  living,  and  the  entire 
audience  beneath  the  dominion  of  those  dark,   ex- 


400  JAMES  Sr RATTEN. 

pressive  eyes.  Some  orators  hold  their  audiences 
in  leash  by  the  speed  and  vehemence  with  which 
they  drive  their  words  along  ;  they  seem  to  hold 
their  sentences  four-in-hand,  and  the  words  appear 
to  leap  from  their  lips  four  abreast.  We  suppose 
this  is  the  oratory  which  tells  over  vast  multitudes. 
But  let  the  reader  attempt  to  read  the  passage  we 
have  just  recited  after  that  fashion,  and  all  its  power 
is  gone  ;  each  sentence  demands  that  it  shall  be 
received  like  a  guest  into  the  mind.  The  highest 
order  of  poetry  will  not  bear  this  impetuosity  of 
delivery.  Fancy  Milton  read  so! — Adam's  Morning 
Hymn,  or  Satan's  Address  to  the  Sun  !  Kemble 
did  not  act  so.  Fancy  the  famous  soliloquies  in 
Hamlet  uttered  in  that  fashion  !  Brooks  and 
little  rivulets  are  delightful,  precious  natural  things. 
How  they  seem  to  hurry  along  !  The  vast  river 
moves  as  rapidly,  but  it  scarcely  seems  to  move  at 
all  ;  it  rolls  and  marches  on  in  stateliness  and 
strength.  The  speedful  manner  is  almost  sure  to 
repeat  and  amplify,  and  to  win  its  way  by  dilating  ; 
the  slower  and  more  sustained  manner  determines 
that  there  shall  not  be  too  much  of  anything,  and 
the  expressions  and  images  are  nicely  chosen,  and 
so  adjusted  to  the  great  matter  in  hand  that  they 
shall  give  effect,  and  full  effect,  to  the  whole  ;  some 
little  insignificant  image,  it  may  be,  brings  out  into 
stronger  vividness   the  entire  impression. 

The  solitary  figure  by  the  side  of  the  lake,  or  the 
bird  on  the  wing  over  the  dark  sea,  suggests  to  us 
a  frequent  beautiful  characteristic  in  Mr.  Stratten's 
sermons — his  keen  sensibility  to  natural  sights  and 
sounds,  his  happy    introduction   of  some  distinctly 


GLADNESS  OF  MORNING  AND  EVENING.     401 


defined  impression  of  a  scene  of  natural  beauty  or 
terror  ;  and  this  conveyed  in  no  hurried  manner, 
carefully,  slowly  presented,  so  defined  that  the  hearer 
rejoiced  in  and  felt  the  very  freshness  of  the  scene. 
We  remember  what  seems  to  us  a  very  beautiful 
instance  of  this  in  a  sermon  called  "  The  Gladness 
of  Morning  and  of  the  Evening,"  from  the  text, 
"  Thou  makest  the  outgoings  of  the  morning  and 
evening  to  rejoice'^  The  whole  sermon  is  one  of 
singularly  soft  and  quiet  beauty.  Towards  the  close 
we  have  this  passage. 

"How  does  the  evening  sing? — that  is  a  question. 
Here,  again,  we  say  that  Nature  rejoices  in  the  evening, 
and  that  it  has  in  it  elements  and  principles  which  make 
a  good  and  pure  mind  rejoice,  when  the  shades  of  evening 
fall  upon  the  earth;  when  God.  draws  His  curtain  round 
about  us ;  when  He  prepares  to  give  us  refreshing  sleep  ; 
when  the  birds  go  to  their  nest,  and  the  cattle  lie  down  ; 
when  man  ceases  his  labour  and  expects  his  rest,  then 
there  is  that  which  is  harmonious,  that  which  makes  melody 
in  all  this.  When  the  stars  are  revealed;  when  the 
constellations  open  themselves  up  to  our  gaze ;  when  the 
great  canopy  and  concave  on  high  is  seen, — 


i<  ( 


In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 
The  hand  that  made  us  is  Divine.* 

Even  by  the  sea  shore,  when  the  billows  roar,  when 
the  foam  and  spray  are  driven  by  the  mighty  winds  in 
the  dark,  evening  has  its  melody.  Evening  in  a  garden, 
when  you  go  up  and  down  among  fruit  trees,  and  can 
see  the  distant  hay  and  corn  stacks  being  gathered  in — 
God's  bounty  collected  by  man — evening  has  then  lovely 
music,    there  is  sweet  singing   going   on  around  us.      In 

36 


402  JAMES  STRATTEN. 


the  evening  we  take  a  retrospect  of  the  day ;  we  remember 
what  we  have  said  and  done,  and  betake  ourselves  to 
Him  Who  can  forgive  and  purify  the  leper.  Those  who 
had  contracted  legal  defilements  were,  of  old,  cleansed 
in  the  evening ;  so  oftentimes  are  we.  We  take  care 
that  the  sun  does  not  go  down  on  our  wrath  ;  we  deliver 
ourselves  from  all  sufferings,  and  extinguish  all  anger 
when  we  say  to  God,  '  Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we 
forgive  them  that  trespass  against  us ;  '  we  commune  with 
God  as  Isaac  did  when  he  went  out  to  meditate ;  as 
Enoch  and  Noah  were  accustomed  to  commune  with 
Him.  Evening  is  a  time  for  devotion,  for  walking  with 
God ;  and  so  we  are  made  holy,  and  delightfully  and 
melodiously  fitted  for  our  home.  '  I  will  lay  me  down 
and  sleep  in  peace,  for  Thou,  Lord,  wilt  make  me  to  dwell 
in  safety.'" 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  read,  it  must  have  been 
still  more  impossible  to  have  heard,  without  feeling 
the  mind  drawn  into  the  very  spirit  of  evening 
peace.  These  rural  images  very  often  caught  and 
detained  this  preacher  very  sweetly,  they  form  quite 
a  characteristic  in  the  structure  of  his  sermons.  Thus 
with  the  text,  "  Blessed  are  the  people  that  know  the 
joyful  sound"  another  glowing  and  glorious  discourse. 
After  the  enumeration  of  sounds  not  joyful  in  the 
world,  falls  in  the  sweet  symphony  of  the  following 
passage. 

Joyful  Sounds. 

"  There  are  sounds  simple,  sweet,  rural ;  sounds  which 
soothe  and  tranquillize  the  mind — the  sheep-bell,  tinkling 
as  the  sheep  move  upon  the  pasture ;  the  huntsman's 
horn  ;  the  birds  as  they  sing ;  the  lark  as  she  rises ;  the 
nightingale   as   she  utters   her   note.      The  sweet  singing 


HIS  CAREFUL  PREPARATION.  403 


of  birds  has  been  called  the  poor  man's  music ;  he  pays 
nothing,  yet  is  there  no  music  more  soft,  more  sweet, 
or  which,  in  the  best  frames  of  the  mind,  enters  more 
deeply  into  it.  There  is  the  sound  of  the  village  bell ; 
there  is  the  reverberation  of  the  echo  in  caverns  by  the 
sea  shore  ;  there  is  the  noise  of  the  billow ;  there  is  that 
tranquil  state  of  the  sea,  when  there  are  no  billows,  when 
it  is  simply  a  wave  softly  fading  away.  All  these  are 
sounds  belonging  to  God's  creation,  adapted,  intended, 
designed,  I  conceive,  to  minister  to  the  happiness  of 
man.  There  are  sacred  sounds,  as  when  x\aion  stood 
in  the  holiest  of  all  to  minister.  There  were  the  golden 
bells  round  the  margin  of  his  sacerdotal  vest,  and  as  he 
moved,  offering  supplication  and  discharging  his  duty,  the 
tinkling  of  those  bells  was  heard,  and  those  without  knew 
he  was  alive,  and  that  he  was  accepted  in  his  service. 
And  there  is  the  pealing  organ,  when  it  is  employed  for 
sacred  purposes.  There  is  the  sound  of  many  voices, 
when  they  are  combined  and  concentrated  in  one  act  of 
worship,  and  wafted  away  upon  the  breeze.  There  is  the 
sweet  canticle  which  you  may  sing  when  you  are  alone 
in  your  chambers,  in  your  libraries,  in  your  retired  places, 
in  your  garden,  in  the  field,  in  the  wood,  if  you  can  go 
out  to  one." 


All  this  shows  very  careful  preparation — we  mean 
the  preparation  of  genius ;  every  word,  and  the 
disposition  of  all  the  parts  of  the  picture,  keep  the 
mind  living  in  the  impression  the  preacher  deter- 
mined to  produce.  As  we  do  not  think  these 
passages  are  likely  to  be  very  well  known,  we  will 
present  our  readers  with  one  more,  finely  realizing 
the  preacher's  intense  love  of  nature  and  perception 
of  its  higher  lessons. 


404  JAMES  STRATTEN. 

m. 

Autumn  Reflections  in  a  Forest. 

"  One  day,  late  in  autumn,  walking  in  a  wild  wood, 
I  suddenly  stood  still.  Around  me  was  a  vast  forest, 
with  its  mighty  and  stupendous  trees,  covered  with  their 
varied  and  decaying  foliage,  ready  to  fall  by  the  first 
breath  of  the  tempest,  and  mingle  with  the  dead  leaves 
already  on  the  ground.  And  it  seemed  to  be  the  ruin 
of  the  world,  as  if  Nature,  in  her  most  beautiful  forms, 
were  coming  to  a  close.  But  I  stopped  in  the  silence, 
and  found  there  were  living  beings  amid  the  solitude 
and  dreariness.  At  intervals,  in  the  distance,  a  cock 
crew ;  a  sparrow  chirped ;  there  was  the  hoarse  voice  of 
distant  rooks  ;  a  horse  neighed  ;  presently  there  was  the 
lowing  of  an  ox,  the  barking  of  a  dog,  the  bleating  of  a 
sheep,  and  the  small  bird  rustled  amid  the  brushwood 
and  the  leaves,  while  the  cooing  of  a  pigeon  was  heard 
from  afar.  And  I  was  alone,  as  amid  the  falling  columns 
and  prostrate  architecture  of  some  ancient  and  perished 
city.  So,  I  thought,  if  life  decays  and  is  extinct  in  some 
forms,  it  shall  survive  in  others,  and  those  the  more 
precious  and  the  more  important  ;  there  may  be  life  in 
the  midst  of  death,  if  we  have  but  the  eye  to  see  it,  and 
the  ear  to  hear  the  melody ;  and  if  the  world  perishes 
like  the  seared  leaves  of  the  forest,  there  will  be  another 
to  rise  from  its  ruins  in  imperishable  beauty,  and  with 
incorruptible  adornments  :  a  righteous  population  shall  in- 
habit that  world.  And  as  the  shades  of  evening  descended, 
and  darkness  spread  itself  over  the  scene,  my  spirit  was 
comforted." 

How  is  it  preachers  do  not  more  indulge  them- 
selves and  refresh  their  hearers  by  such  pictures  } 
They  are  always  acceptable,  most  of  all  acceptable, 
if  rightly  and  adroitly  used,  by  those  who  live  in 


THE  PREACHER  A   POET  AND  PAINTER.    405 
_ 

cities,  and  are,  therefore,  usually  far  removed  from 
the  possibility  of  conversing  much  with  such  scenes. 
Man  in  his  heart  loves  the  country  :  he  may  find 
his  occupations  chaining  him  to  city  pursuits  ;  and 
even,  like  Johnson  or  Lamb,  he  may  not  be  disposed 
to  be  long  far  away  from  his  round  of  ordinary 
occupations  and  associations,  which  have  made 
certain  scenes  dear  to  him  ;  but,  in  his  heart,  man 
loves  a  natural  sight  and  sound.  Why  does  the 
poor  old  woman,  pent  up  in  the  city,  buy  and  try 
to  tend  her  little  flower-pot,  or  hang  up  in  the 
poorly-furni^he  J  room  some  bird-cage,  with  its  tiny 
twittering  songster  ?  There  is  a  loving  attempt 
made  to  get  near  to  that  world  which  seems  to 
have  in  it  more  of  purity,  fairness,  and  freshness. 
Wonder  it  is,  that  so  thickly  strewn  as  the  Scriptures 
are  with  every  variety  of  natural  reference  and 
imagery,  especially  so  pointed  as  the  directions  of 
our  Lord  are  to  find  in  natural  things — flowers,  birds, 
cornfields,  and  orchards — the  texts  illustrating  the 
spiritual  significance  of  life,  these  things  should  be 
so  neglected  by  us  ;  strange,  too,  when  we  find  the 
delight  which  certain  poems  awaken,  and  the  immense 
popularity  they  attain,  because  they  bring  into  the 
city  the  life  of  woods  and  fields  ;  strange,  we  say, 
that  the  preacher  does  not  learn,  that  if  he  is  to 
affect  and  move  men,  he  also  must  be  a  poet,  and 
painter  too.  But  we  have  alighted  on  an  accident 
almost  of  Mr.  Stratten's  method  and  teaching,  an 
accident,  however,  which  gives  us  a  very  fine  and 
clear  insight  into  the  instinctive  character  of  his 
mind  and  the  furniture  with  which  his  sermons 
abounded. 


4o6  JAMES  STRATTEN. 

We  have  said  that  Mr.  Stratten's  style  was  ex- 
pository and  paraphrastic  ;  it  was  his  pleasure  to 
take  a  text  full  of  material,  and  to  touch  word  after 
word  till  every  one  became  a  "  link  of  sweetness 
long  drawn  out."  It  was  his  way,  while  not  depart- 
ing from  the  harmony  and  unity  of  a  text,  to  follow 
the  suggestions  each  word  inspired.  It  may  be  said 
that  in  his  sermons  he  always  kept  along  the  high- 
way ;  delightful  as  were  many  of  the  suggestions, 
and  terse  and  harmonious  the  expressions,  the  whole 
plan  was  very  simple.  We  will  take  one  of  his 
most  simple, — 

The  Cure  of  Naaman. 

^^Introduction. — In  the  Scriptures  there  are  heights  of 
Divine  light ;  on  those  heights  I  hope  ever  to  be  able  to 
expatiate.  In  the  Scriptures  there  are  depths  of  Divine 
darkness  ;  I  hope  often  to  dive  into  them,  and,  according 
to  my  opportunities  and  abilities,  I  will  go  down  into 
those  deep  and  transparent  waters.  In  the  Scriptures  are 
lengths  and  breadths  of  knowledge  and  information.  You 
may  sometimes  think  that  the  topics  discoursed  of  are 
abstract,  abstruse,  and  difficult  ;  and  if  it  were  so  I  wquld 
screen  myself  under  the  example  of  the  Apostle  Paul,  of 
whom  the  Apostle  Peter  testifies,  that  he  did  write  some 
things  which  were  hard  to  be  understood.  Would  you 
in  your  theology  never  proceed  beyond  the  ABC?  But 
all  that  I  have  to  offer  you  in  the  narrative  before  us  will 
be  simple  to  every  capacity;  not  a  child  present  but  may 
clearly  comprehend  what  I  purpose  to  advance.  In  the 
story  of  Naaman  there  are  four  parties  concerned. 

"  I.  Give  your  attention  first  of  all  to  the  servants. 

"  1.  Firsts  the  Syrians  had  gone  out  by  companies,  and 
brought  away  captive  out  of  Israel  a  little  maid,  and  she 


THE  CURE  OF  NAAMAN.  ^o^ 


waited  on  Naaman's  wife.  These  persons  were  freebooters, 
banditti,  common  in  those  countries,  etc.  They  had  carried 
off  the  little  Israelitish  maid.  Had  they  killed  the  father 
and  mother  ?  If  these  had  escaped  alive,  what  agony 
when  they  thought  of  the  condition  of  their  daughter, 
their  little  maid!  There  is  no  comparison  between  a 
child  dead  and  a  child  lost.  Exposed  to  infamy,  insult, 
vice,  idolatry.  Those  who  are  absent  from  us,  and  of 
whose  condition  we  have  no  knowledge,  having  received 
no  intelligence,  may  be  in  a  far  better  state  than  we 
believe.  This  little  maid  was  secure  and  happy  in  the 
palace  of  Naaman.  She  sang  sweetly  there  in  the  ineffable 
simplicity  of  nature ;  conformed  herself  to  the  necessities 
of  her  lot,  acquired  in  what  the  event  proved  to  be  the 
will  and  providence  of  God  ;  and  respecting  her  I  wish 
to  observe — 

"  (i)  She  had  been  religiously  educated.  She  had  heard 
of  the  prophet  and  the  perfections  of  the  prophet's  God. 
She  knew  that  the  religion  of  her  country  originated  in 
the  midst  of  miracles,  signs,  and  wonders ;  knew  that  there 
was  light  and  power  and  efficiency  in  Hebrew  principles, 
and  no  good  to  be  got  in  the  dead  and  dumb  idolatries 
of  Rimmon.  Parents,  there  is  a  word  to  you,  teach  your 
children  the  Scriptures,  etc. 

"(2)  /  observe  respecting  her  the  prudence  of  her  de- 
meanour. There  was  something  remarkable  about  her, 
or  she  would  not  have  filled  this  situation.  She  was 
lady's  maid  to  the  highest  military  officer  of  the  realm. 
Had  she  filled  the  house  with  the  noise  and  clamour 
of  her  religion,  she  would  not  have  been  respected  or 
regarded  ;  her  light  shone  silently,  and  without  a  voice, 
and  was  its  own  recommendation.  Her  demeanour  soft- 
ened prejudice,  and  secured  her  respect  in  the  palace; 
and  be  assured  there  is  ineftable  enchantment  and  spright- 
liness  in  activity,  and  willing  duty,  where  these  qualities 
open  and  beam  in  the  young.     She  might  have  been  the 


4o8  JAMES  STRATTEN. 

grace  and  ornament  of  a  nobler  rank,  but  she  was  where 
God  had  put  her,  and  she  was  there  a  pattern. 

"(3)  I  notice  the  tender  interest  she  felt  in  her  master's 
welfare.  So  she  said,  '  Would  God,  my  Lord,'  etc.  Have 
you  never  met  with  people, — I  have  with  many, — who  did 
not  care  if  the  world  were  in  conflagration,  if  their  own 
nest  was  not  in  a  blaze  ?  Let  us  learn  to  seek  each  other's 
good.  Be  assured  that  dignity  and  honour  depend,  not 
upon  the  place,  but  upon  the  person ;  not  where  you  are, 
but  what  you  are,  as  this   Israelitish  maid  demonstrates. 

"  2.  We  have  another  set  of  servants,  those  who  accom- 
panied Naaman.  Servants  and  horses  and  chariots,  perhaps 
camels  and  asses — what  we  call  a  caravan.  There  must 
have  been  many  servants,  considering  the  quantity  of 
material  they  brought,  to  preserve  order.  There  is  no 
censure  pronounced  upon  them,  so  I  infer  that  they  were, 
although  idolaters,  persons  of  fair  character  and  respectable 
habits. 

"3.  Bid  there  is  the  servant  of  the  prophet — Gehazi, 
a  man  of  activity,  cunning,  wit,  and  impiety,  with  an  oath 
ready  to  swear  to  a  lie.  Listen  to  what  he  says.  What 
invention  1  genius  !  what  a  ready  story !  He  is  furnished 
with  what  he  wants  in  a  moment :  the  devil  helps  liars. 
Follow  him  as  he  went  in  to  his  master.  Pid  he  not  know 
there  was  no  place  where  the  workers  of  iniquity  could 
hide  themselves?  'Whence  comest  thou,  Gehazi  ?'  '  Thy 
servant  went  no  whither.'  Elisha  drew  out  all  his  sacred 
nature,  and  showed  to  him  all  the  castles  he  had  been 
building  in  the  air;  and  he  went  out,  from  his  master's 
presence,  a  leper  white  as  snow.  He  had  better  have 
had  an  empty  purse  and  clear  conscience,  a  plain  coat 
and  a  whole  skin,  than  a  full  purse,  fine  clothes,  and  leprosy 
along  with  them. 

*'Here  are  the  three  classes  of  servants,  the  very  good, 
the  middUng,  and  the  intolerably  bad  and  base.  I  have 
done  with  the  servants.     I  come — 


NAAMAN—HIS  CHARACTERISTICS.        409 

"  II.  To  THE  Soldier,  the  commander-in-chief  of  the 
Syrian  forces;  and  I  wish  to  mark, — 

"  I.  His  rank,  a  great  man,  said  by  some  to  have 
been  the  person  who  aimed  at  Ahab,  because  by  him  the 
Lord  had  given  deHverance  to  Syria.  Even  when  idola- 
trous armies  are  delivered,  the  victory  is  ascribed  to  God. 
A  mighty  man,  of  commanding  aspect,  great  abilities, 
etc.     I  wish  to  mark — 

*'  2.  His  malady.  *  But  he  was  a  leper,'  a  crook  in 
every  lot,  a  but  in  every  person's  condition.     But,  etc.,  etc. 

"  3.  His  mistake.  To  cure  his  malady,  he  went  to 
the  King.  See  the  King  of  Israel  and  the  King  of  Syria 
both  in  the  dark,  and  Naaman  in  the  dark. 

"  4.  Notice  the  pride  and  vanity  of  N'aa?nan,  coming 
with  his  horses  and  chariot  before  Elisha  ;  and  because 
his  vanity  is  not  honoured  he  goes  away  in  a  rage.  Passion 
is  blind :  like  a  vicious  horse,  it  will  smash  all  things  to 
pieces.  If  passion  hold  the  reins  you  will  come  to  no 
good.      There  was  no  reason  in  his  rage. 

"  5.  I  wish   you  to  notice   his  prudence,  in   listening  to ' 
what  his  servant  said.     *  If  the  prophet  bade  thee  do,'  etc. 
So  rage  was  overcome.     Rage  is  bad,  but  fixed  malevolence 
is  worse.     Listen  to  remonstrance. 

"  6.  Mark  his  obedience.  He  did  not  go  back  to 
Damascus,  but  went  right  on  to  Jordan  ;  and  his  flesh 
came  again  like  the  flesh  of  a  little  child.  And  if  you 
ever  had  a  little  son  or  daughter  two  years  old,  you  have 
kissed  and  loved,  you  can  enter  into  the  exquisite  beauty 
of  this  similitude.  And  here  you  have  the  Gospel,  the 
Gospel  in  its  perfection  and  simplicity. 

"  7.  Notice  his  gratitude.  He  did  not  go  off"  as  fast 
as  he  could,  but  he  came  back  again  to  the  prophet's 
door.     '  Were  there  not  ten  cleansed  ?  '  etc. 

*'  8.  /  jnust  notice  his  infirtnity.  What  did  he  mean  by 
asking  permission  to  boiv  in  the  house  of  Rimmon  J  That 
was  the  idolatrous  temple  of  Damascus.     Rimmon  probably 


410  JAMES  STRATTEN. 

Baal,  etc.  It  gives  me  the  opportunity  to  say,  if  any 
man  says,  I  shall  go  to  a  ball,  but  I  shall  not  dance  ; 
I  shall  go  to  the  theatre,  but  I  shall  not  join  in  its 
profligacies  ;  I  shall  go  to  the  card  party,  but  I  shall  not 
play  at  cards.  Will  you  go?  Perhaps  you  had  better 
not ;  perhaps  you  had  better  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
air,  or  the  roof,  or  the  House  of  Rimmon  ;  perhaps  you 
had  better  listen  to  the  advice  of  the  Apostle  Paul,  be  ye 
not  conformed  to  this  world  ;  perhaps  you  had  better 
remember  that  the  fashions  of  the  world  pass  away. 

"III.  You  have  the  Prophet. 

"  I.  His  regard  for  the  Divine  honour.  There  is  a 
God  who  can  kill  and  make  alive. 

"  2.  His  dignity.  When  Naaman  was  proud,  he  would 
not  let  Naaman  come  near  him ;  he  taught  him  that  he 
had  a  benefit  to  receive,  not  an  honour  to  confer. 

"  3.  His  disinterestedness.  He  would  receive  no  present. 
He  taught  the  Syrian  that  the  miraculous  cure  transcended 
all  price ;  was  above  everything  money  could  purchase. 
Gehazi  did  his  best  to  tarnish  this  great  principle. 

"  4.  His  antipathy  to  sin  ;  his  abhorrence  of  it.  Nothing 
is  more  dignified  here  than  the  prophet,  except,  finally 
and — 

"  IV.  The  prophet's  God.  Many  persons  in  reading 
the  narrative  would  overlook  God — they  would  not  see 
God  in  it  at  all  ;  and  yet  the  story  is  full  of  God. 

"  I.  His  sovereignty.  As  Christ  teaches,  '  Many  lepers 
were  in  Israel  in  the  time  of  Elisha,'  etc  He  was  one 
illustrious  instance  of  cure. 

"  2.  Here  is  Divine  Frovidetice.  God  watched  over 
the  little  maid,  as  He  did  over  Joseph;  superintended 
the  wheel  within  the  wheel. 

"3.  Here  is  God's  disapprobation  of  sin,  and  love  of 
holiness.  He  sets  His  seal  on  the  verdict  of  the  prophet. 
Remove  God  from  these  transactions,  and  the  life  is  gone 
from  the  body.     It  is  all  full  of  God,  and — 


A  MODEL  SERMON.  4" 


-The  end  /..—Servants  should  learn  integrity,  love  of 
truth  and  honesty;  masters  should  learn  chanty,  cour- 
tous'ness  kindness' ;nd  consolation;  God's  ministers  shou  d 
1  disinterestedness,  avoid  whatever  .  covetous  and 
stand  clear  from  the  love  of  money;  and  every  one  of  us 
should  learn  to  put  our  trust  in  that  kind  Providence  wh.ch 
sheltered  and  honoured  the  little  Hebrew  maid,  etc. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  this  is,  in  its  way, 
a  perfect  model  of  a  practical  sermon,  and  exhibits 
an  admirable  adroitness  in  turning  naturally,  and 
without  any  artifice,  every  little  incident  m  the  story 
to  practical  purpose  and  account. 

There    is   a   kind   of  preaching  which    can    only 
sustain  itself  in  the  shade.     The  mind  vvhich,  with 
industry  and  avidity,  enters  into  the  life  of  cities  and 
of    nations,  and   the    turbulent  clash   and   jostle   of 
opinions,  lises  its  power.     This  is  far  fronri  the  case 
n^ith  all.      Some   minds  have  their  natural  aptitude 
and  commission  for  work  where  the  strife  is  keenest ; 
but    if   the   nature   unfitted   for   such    a  region   and 
sphere  of  labour  step  aside,  it  loses  in  both.      Mr 
Stratten  was  one  of  the  isolated    men.      There  are 
those  who  affect  to  regard  with  contempt  the  entire 
absorption    of   the   mind    in    pulpit  labour  and    the 
preparation  of  two  or  three  sermons  a  week.      But 
the  force  of  the  contempt  must  depend  very   much 
upon  the  quality  of  the  character  against  which  it  is 
expressed.     Two  or  three  sermons  a  week  ought  to 
represent  a  wonderful  amount  of  intensity  and  power. 
It  is  a  contempt  expressed,  we  believe,  against  no 
profession  but  that  of  the  pulpit.     The  great  musician 
is  not  quarrelled  with  because  he  does  nothing  more 
than    sing   or  compose.     Even  his   irritabilities   are 


412  JAMES  STRAITEN. 

forgiven  him  ;  for  it  is  known  that  his  nature  must 
be  upon  the  strain.  And  so  of  other  professions. 
Of  all  men,  perhaps,  most  is  exacted  from  the 
minister.  It  is  demanded  that,  from  week  to  week, 
he,  like  a  Sims  Reeves,  shall  do  his  best  to  charm  an 
audience  by  his  manner,  and  present  to  his  people 
sentences  and  thoughts  and  pictures  as  richly  cut  as 
the  words  or  the  verses  of  Tennyson,  and  be  equal 
to  all  and  every  kind  of  business  going  on  beside. 
A  kind  of  woe  attends  the  man  sufficiently  courageous 
to  resist  the  demand,  and  who,  simply  isolating  him- 
self and  dealing  only  with  thoughts  and  things,  thus 
attempts,  by  the  best  he  can  win  from  God  and 
himself,  to  do  his  best  for  his  congregation.  Such  a 
man  is  not  contemptible,  although  it  is  very  much 
the  modern  fashion  to  regard  him  with  contempt. 
And  if  there  be  any  power  in  consecration  to  art ;  if 
the  passion  of  the  musician  be  to  sing,  and  to  hold 
himself  free  from  and  careless  of  other  interests  and 
claims ;  and  if  the  passion  of  the  painter,  or  sculptor, 
be  to  represent  ideal  forms  on  canvas,  or  in  stone  ; 
surely,  the  true-born  preacher  may  plead  a  like  passion, 
and — with  an  indifference  equal  to  that  which 
musician,  painter,  or  sculptor  would  feel  for  adverse 
or  hostile  criticism — simply  be  happy  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  passion  moving  within  him,  and 
the  art  which   it  tends  to  excite  and  create ! 

But,  of  course,  we  speak  of  real  preachers.  It 
would  be  absurd  to  apply  the  canons  which  rule  the 
judgment  with  reference  to  an  Andrea  Del  Sarto,  or 
to  a  Rembrandt,  to  an  ignorant  stenciller  or  sign- 
dauber  ;  equally  absurd  to  apply  the  judgment  of 
what  is   fittest   to   a  Beethoven,  or   Schubert,    to   a 


,A  MASTER  IN  THE  PULPIT.  413 

merely  mechanical  professor  of  music.  So  in  our 
judgment  of  preachers  ;  there  are  those  who  had 
better,  as  ministers,  do  almost  any  work  than  preach 
— visit,  keep  organizations  together,  attempt  to 
speak  such  words  as  are  given  them  to  say  to  those 
they  casually  meet ;  but,  having  no  song,  no  utter- 
ance, no  insight,  no  way  of  meeting  either  conscience 
or  consciousness  by  aspects  of  truth,  they  simply 
weary  and  wear  out  the  attention  of  men  when  they 
become  preachers.  The  worst  of  it  is,  thoughtless 
Churches  insist  on  applying  the  same  rule  of  judg- 
ment to  both  cases,  as  if  Shakespeare  or  Milton  should 
be  tried  by  the  same  standard  as  the  penny  journal- 
ist. The  mischief  again  is,  that  usually  popular 
self-sufficiency  in  any  department  commands  all. 
It  can  travel,  it  can  obtain  its  pictures,  its  books,  its 
busts,  its  costly  houses  and  furniture  ;  for  most  men 
would  love  a  concert  or  an  opera  more  than  the  song 
of  a  nightingale  in  the  shade  ;  it  takes  a  heart  to 
appreciate  the  one.  The  verdict  we  heard  pro- 
nounced once  by  one  of  these  people  was,  that  he 
had  heard  the  nightingale  sing,  and  it  was  no  such 
great  thing  after  all.  To  such,  the  racket  and  the 
tempest  of  opera  and  concert  are  much  more  appre- 
hensible. It  must  be  so  through  many  things  ;  it 
must  be  so  especially  with  reference  to  the  pulpit. 
Happy,  therefore,  is  the  man  whose  tastes  and 
powers  call  him  to  seclusion,  and  who  has  somehow 
the  means  of  so  gratifying  his  tastes  as  to  give  effect 
to  his  powers.  This  was  very  much  the  case  with 
Mr.  Stratten.  Away  from  the  pulpit,  nothing  was 
heard  of  him.  He  had  powers  fitting  him  to  be,  in  a 
peculiar  sense,  a  master  there,  and  he  contented  him- 


414  JAMES  STRAITEN.  • 

self  with  being  a  master  there.  He  charged  mind 
and  heart  in  preparation  ;  and  the  multitudes  of  his 
own  eminently  select  audience  hung  delightedly  on 
his  lips. 

As  to  the  frame  of  thought  Mr.  Stratten  filled 
out,  it  had  little  of  the  build,  his  words  had  little 
of  the  tincture,  of  the  theology  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  It  must  be  admitted  his  theology  was 
entirely  seventeenth-century  theology — a  grand 
theology,  massive,  certain,  and  mighty — a  dogmatic 
theology.  The  last  thing  which  can  be  said,  in 
general,  of  the  theology  of  our  day  is,  that  it  is  dog- 
matic. Whether  this  be  well  or  ill,  we  are  not 
arguing.  The  theology  of  the  seventeenth  century 
was  vertebrated,  distinctly  articulated,  no  doubt  often 
bony,  unclothed  ;  but,  whatever  else  it  was,  it  was 
symmetrical.  Into  what  shape  our  theology  may 
fall,  it  may  be  for  the  philosophical  mind  to  inquire, 
and  for  other  generations  to  know.  During  the 
period  of  Mr.  Stratten's  ministrations,  men  of  the 
pulpit  clung  to  the  ancient  terminology  and  nomen- 
clature ;  the  old  words  had  not  fitted  into  a  new 
lexicon.  He  stood  by  the  old  forms  ;  we  have  seen 
that  he  clothed  them  with  great  beauty  and  inter- 
preted them  with  all  the  freshness  of  a  genuine  and 
thoughtful  nature  ;  still,  he  was  eminently  dogmatic. 
Perhaps  there  can  be  no  great  pulpit  power  unless 
the  preacher  be  dogmatic  ;  perhaps,  by  a  more  free 
and  loose  scheme  of  thought,  men  may  be  more 
amused,  but  not  awed.  More,  perhaps  a  preacher 
has  few  claims  to  be  heard  who  is  not  dogmatic. 
From  the  teacher  of  any  science,  astronomy  or 
chemistry,  we  demand  what  he  knows,  more  than 


HIS  STYLE. 


415 


what  he  suspects.  Unteaching  has  done  good 
service  in  its  day  ;  but  never  unless  it  has  had 
beneath  it  a  strong  stratum  of  real  teaching.  Little 
is  gained  even  by  the  mere  removal  of  the  false, 
unless  at  the  same  time  there  is  the  revelation  of 
the  true. 

So,  in  a  very  good  and  eminent  sense,  Mr. 
Stratten's  sermons  seem  to  us  to  have  been  edifices, 
and  he  was  an  instructor.  This  was  very  much  the 
style,  we  remember,  that  has  been  called  doctrinal 
preaching  ;  and  usually  it  may  be  safely  admitted 
that  such  preaching  is  more  instructive,  tends  more  to 
the  raising  a  symmetrical  system  of  Christian  know- 
ledge in  the  mind,  than  the  homiletical  or  hortative 
style  of  discourse.  How  strangely  such  things  sound 
to  modern  ears — the  gathering  up  a  system  of 
instruction  and  thought  from  a  minister  !  Of  course, 
the  merely  hortative  style  must  leave  the  mind  un- 
furnished and  unformed.  A  youth  attending  a 
course  of  college  lectures  would  gain  but  little 
benefit  from  the  professor  who  constantly  urged  the 
importance  of  such  attendance,  and  recapitulated  the 
advantages  to  be  derived  from  a  life  of  study,  while 
giving  no  attention  to  the  solid  material,  building  up 
in  the  mind  an  acquaintance  with  the  principles  of 
the  science.  Yet  this,  it  is  to  be  feared,  is  no  unfair 
picture  of  much  pulpit  ministration  ;  perhaps  it 
must  infallibly  be  so  where  the  minister's  mind  is  not 
itself  aware  of  the  importance  of  some  entire  system 
of  theological  thought  ;  or,  in  a  word,  where  he  has 
no  sustained  scheme  of  theology  as  the  basis  of  his 
ministration.  Now,  by  these  remarks  we  sufficiently 
indicate  Mr.  Stratten's  style  of  ministration  and  the 


4i6  JAMES  STRAITEN. 

principles  of  his  power  and  success — solemn  as  even- 
tide, as  the  shades  of  woods,  as  the  solitary  note 
startling  the  stillness  of  the  evening,  the  pensiveness 
of  a  mind  possessed  by  the  sense  of  its  perceptions 
and  relations  ;  an  unexcited  mind,  firm  in  its  self- 
control,  nervously  aware  of  the  immeasurable  majesty 
of  the  topics  it  dared  to  handle — to  whom,  therefore, 
there  was  no  "  port  for  levity  ; "  a  mind,  too,  it  must 
be  admitted,  not  accustomed  at  any  time  to  the 
more  cheerful  views  of  common  things — the  mind 
itself  sombre  by  the  umbrageousness  through  which 
it  passed  ;  an  eye  of  steadfast,  penetrating  power,  but 
in  its  darkness  shedding  no  bright  relieving  light 
over  the  natural  glooms  which  were  the  perpetual 
habit  of  the  thought  ;  a  mind  which,  knowing  the 
tendency  of  audiences  to  a  restless  impatience 
beneath  the  power  of  protracted  discussion,  occasion- 
ally strict,  enchanted  and  enchained  attention,  not 
by  any  touch  of  humour,  not  by  any  cheerful  sun- 
light of  expression, — that  was  impossible, —  but  by 
some  startling,  solemn  stroke  of  sententious  expression 
leading  on  the  way  to  another  widening  stream  of 
thought — such  was  the  preaching  of  James  Stratten 
in  those  times  when  we  were  aware  of  his  ministry. 

We  should  like  to  present  our  readers  with  an 
instance  of  Mr.  Stratten's  more  prolonged  and  sus- 
tained manner.  This  was  often,  not  merely  very 
impressive,  but  in  the  arrangement  pressed  home 
the  fulness  and  instructiveness  of  the  text.  We 
have  a  large  variety  of  such  passages  upon  our 
memory,  from  which  we  might  select  ;  but,  very 
obviously,  the  size  of  this  volume,  and  the  space 
we  desire    to   give    to   other   names,   forbid   further 


A   SERMON  A    THING  "  SUI  GENERISr     \\^ 

quotations  ;  only  we  will  remark  that  this  preacher 
reminds  us  how  many  of  the  best  sermons  are 
unknown  to  the  world,  and  travel  ho  further  than 
the  congregation  to  which  they  were  immediately 
addressed.  It  has  seemed  to  us  that  Mr.  Stratten's 
were  frequently  types  of  what  we  understand  by  a 
sermon,  both  in  character  and  design,  in  execution 
and  delivery  ;  for  it  should  be  remembered,  but  is 
too  frequently  forgotten,  that  a  sermon  is,  or  should 
be,  a  thing  sui  genet  is ;  it  is  a  piece  of  work- 
manship, differing  from  any  other  kind  of  literary 
work.  Our  remarks  in  many  parts  of  this  volume 
convey  our  clear  impression  that  there  is  no  sinfulness 
against  the  earnestness  of  the  pulpit  in  regarding 
preparation  for  it  as  harmonious  with  the  highest 
exercises  of  taste  and  art. 


27 


CHAPTER    XIV. 
THE  USE  AND  ABUSE  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

WHAT  is  this  power  we  call  the  imagination  ? 
There  are  those  who  affect  to  despise  it, 
d.nd  they  laugh  at  the  man  who  wields  it,  and  sneer 
at  him  as  a  word-painter.  Yet  this  is  the  power 
of  the  poet,  the  truthful  rendering  of  scenery  and 
character  which,  from  Homer  to  Shakespeare,  and 
from  Shakespeare  to  Wordsworth  and  Tennyson, 
brings  the  object  described  vividly  before  the  eye, 
and  affects  the  sense  so  naturally  as  to  realize  and 
to  affect  the  moral  nature.  Imagination — we  think 
it  is  Ruskin  who  says — seizes  the  innermost ;  it 
realizes  vividly,  and  hence  it  affects  distinctly.  What 
is  imagination  but  the  faculty  which  makes  images } 
It  is,  by  universal  consent,  regarded,  as  we  suppose, 
the  greatest  faculty  in  man.     Therefore  it  is 

**  The  sun  of  Homer  shines  upon  us  still." 

It  is  synthetic,  it  sees  things  in  their  wholeness  ; 
it  stands  in  the  light.  Logic,  as  has  been  truly 
said,  at  its  best,  only  catches  us  as  we  are  falling  ; 
with  its  definitions,  logic  discovers  no  new  truths  ; 
it  only  gives  to  us  the  cue  of  those  already  dis- 
covered ;  and  even  the  logician,  as  he  advances 
along,  often  adroitly  calls  in  the  aid  of  imagination 


IMAGINATION  A    GODLIKE  FACUL2Y.    41Q 

to  shed  some  illustrative  gleam  on  his  toilsome  way. 
It  is,  therefore,  that  analogy,  which  is  only  another 
name  for  imagination,  becomes  logic.  Imagination 
is  the  healthful  and  full-orbed  view  of  things. 
Metaphysics  have  been  well  defined  by  De  Quincey 
as  "  a  man  standing  before  a  looking-glass  and 
attempting  to  look  down  his  own  throat."  Far  be  it 
from  us  to  deny  the  legitimate  claims  and  the  grand 
achievements  of  logic  and  metaphysics  ;  but  all  the 
asfes  and  the  literatures  of  the  whole  world  have  set 
their  seal  upon  the  imagination  as  the  most  divine, 
the  most  Godlike  faculty  of  man.  There  is  no  fame 
like  the  fame  of  poets  ;  and  the  very  term,  in  its  old 
Greek  usage,  originally  expressed  the  idea  of  the 
maker — the  Creator. 

The  imagination  lets  in  the  light  ;  it  is  a  window 
through  whose  panes  the  visions  stream  ;  sometimes 
as  little  pictures,  and  how  impressive  they  are  !  The 
essays  of  John  Foster  and  Coleridge,  for  instance, 
abound  with  them,  as  when  the  last  speaks  of  the 
terrible  lessons  learned — alas!  too  late — from  history, 
or  from  our  own  experience  ;  truths  learned  too  late, 
as,  "  alas  !  like  lights  in  the  stern  of  a  vessel,  they 
illumined  only  the  path  that  had  been  passed  over." 
Or  when  he  speaks  of  "  Neglected  truths,  truths 
of  all  others  the  most  awful  and  mysterious,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  of  universal  interest,  but  considered 
as  so  true  as  to  lose  all  the  power  of  truth,  and  lie 
bed-ridden  in  the  dormitory  of  the  soul,  side  by  side 
with  the  most  despised  and  exploded  errors."  An 
image  is  sometimes  very  illustrative  ;  but  what  is  its 
use  unless  it  illustrates }  We  remember  to  have 
heard     Samuel    Wilberforce,    the    late     Bishop    of 


420     USE  A  ND  ABUSE  OF  THE  IMA  GIN  A  TION. 

Winchester,  thus  illustrate  the  text,  "  How  is  it  that 
Thou  wilt  manifest  Thyself  unto  us,  and  not  unto  the 
world  ?  "  Jesus  said,  "  If  a  man  love  Me,  he  will  keep 
My  words,  etc.,  etc.,  and  we  will  come  unto  him,  and 
make  our  abode  with  him."  "  Just,"  he  said,  "  as  a 
dark  lantern  is  of  no  use  to  any  one  but  him  who 
carries  it;  dark  everywhere,  behind  and  on  either  side, 
but,  held  by  its  possessor,  it  casts  before  him  a 
stream  of  informing  light."  Then  upon  another  text 
the  same  eloquent  preacher  says,  "  Many  characters 
seem  to  float  before  our  eyes  in  Scripture  as  having 
been  visited  by  convictions  and  opportunities  of 
grace,  but  only  like  ships  which,  when  night  is 
spread  over  the  sea,  emerge  for  a  moment  from  the 
darkness  as  they  cross  the  path  of  the  moonbeams 
and  then  are  lost  again  in  utter  gloom."  But  these 
things  are  not  to  be  stuck  into  sermons  meretri- 
ciously, like  wax  or  paper  flowers. 

There  is  a  singular  disposition  in  the  human  mind 
to  regard  all  things  as  human,  and  even  inanimate 
things  as  really  alive.  Even  from  before  the  days 
of  ^sop  until  now,  beasts,  birds,  and  creeping  things 
have  been  made  to  speak,  not  only  as  in  the  posses- 
sion of  consciousness,  but  of  reason,  character,  and 
sensibility.  Imagination  plays  with  those  things 
and  creatures  ;  and  the  happy  power  of  the  good- 
humoured  caricaturist,  who  would  cure  the  vices  or 
foibles  of  mankind  without  the  severity  of  the  satirist, 
is  never  more  admirably  displayed  than  when  indulg- 
ing these  innocent  licences  of  fancy  and  speech.  It 
is  most  quaint  and  ludicrous  to  notice  what  human 
likenesses  and  resemblances  peep  out  from  the 
meanest  things.     The  echo  of  a  human  heart  seems 


THE  TWO  POKERS.  421 

to  sound  from  everything  above  man,  and  every  little 
creature,  and  everything  man  has  made,  from  beneath 
now  seems  to  look  up  and  claim  a  .relationship.  A 
parable  is  a  spoken  picture  or  an  expression  of  spiritual 
truth  through  the  medium  of  natural  circumstances, 
and,  with  fable,  assigns  moral  qualities  to  unreasoning, 
and  even  to  inanimate  things  ;  and  the  savage  who 
called  the  chip  of  wood  "  a  talking  chip  "  when  the 
missionary  wrote  in  pencil  upon  it  and  sent  it  by  a 
messenger  to  his  wife,  and  so  obtained  back  the  book 
he  needed,  only  illustrates  the  wide  personification 
so  natural  to  simple  minds,  and  of  which  poets  and 
teachers  have  always  been  ready  to  avail  themselves. 
In  England,  where  we  have  not  only  fireplaces,  but 
fires  and  coals,  and  pokers  to  stir  the  fire,  we 
usually  see  by  the  fireplace  two  pokers, — one  short, 
a  little  begrimed  stubbly  fellow,  who  does  all  the 
work  of  breaking  the  coal,  or  stirring  up  the  fire  ; 
the  other,  face  bright,  polished,  aristocratic,  standing 
there  idle,  more  for  ornament  than  use.  Douglas 
Jerrold  noticed  this,  and  in  "  Punch's  Letters  to  his 
Son,"  he  says,  "  My  dear  boy,  be  a  bright  poker." 
It  is  a  short  proverb,  and  a  very  expressive  parable  ; 
the  poor  little  black  poker  cracked  the  coals,  and 
cleared  the  lower  bar,  and  stirred  and  levelled  the 
fire,  and  accommodated  the  tea-kettle  to  the  coals, 
and,  in  fact,  did  all  the  poking,  raking,  burning, 
banging,  and  all  the  sweating  work.  The  bright 
poker  was  a  kind  of  consecrated,  and,  therefore,  con- 
ceited thing,  and,  when  the  owner  of  the  house  went 
out,  it  was  even  sometimes  removed  from  the  grate, 
and  swathed  in  flannel,  oiled,  and  left  to  repose  in 
luxurious   idleness  ;  while  its  poor  little   friend  was 


422     USE  AND  AB  USE  OF  THE  IMA  GIN  A  TION. 

worked  to  the  stump,  and  then  flung  aside  for  vile 
old  iron — black  and  bent  ;  the  bright  poker, 
effulgent  and  speckless,  lasted  out  a  dozen  hard- 
working little  pokers,  lustrous,  inactive,  and  proud 
of  doing  nothing.  Therefore,  said  Punch  to  his  son, 
"  Be  a  briglit  poker,  my  boy."  And  this  little 
image  may  remind  us  how  this  extraordinary  power 
of  fancy,  employed  on  moral  analogy,  and  finding 
a  moral  and  spiritual  significance  in  things,  invests 
dead  and  almost  worthless  things  with  even  spiritual 
properties,  sets  them  all  a-talking,  and  gives  them, 
from  out  of  ourselves,  functions  so  far  beyond  them- 
selves, as  to  make  them  embodied  teachers,  and 
representatives  of  truths.  Thus,  by  a  charming 
parable,  that  wise  man,  Mr.  Caxton,  teaches  how 
good  wishes  do  not  mend  bad  actions  ;  but  how 
good  actions  may  mend  bad  actions.  Again,  when 
his  little  son  came  into  the  room  glowing  and  pant- 
ing, health  on  his  cheek,  vigour  in  his  limbs,  all 
childhood  at  his  heart,  exclaiming,  " '  Oh,  mamma,  I 
have  got  the  kite  up  so  high  !  come  and  see.  Do 
come,  papa,' — '  Certainly,'  said  my  father  ;  '  only 
don't  cry  so  loud.  Kites  make  no  noise  in  rising, 
yet  you  see  how  they  soar  above  the  world.  Come, 
Kate,  where  is  my  hat  ?  Ah,  thank  you,  my  boy.' 
'  Kitty,'  said  my  father,  looking  at  the  kite,  which, 
attached  by  its  string  to  the  peg  I  had  stuck  into 
the  ground,  rested  calmly  in  the  sky,  'never  fear, 
but  what  our  kite  shall  fly  as  high  ;  only  the  human 
soul  has  stronger  instincts  to  mount  upward  than  a 
few  sheets  of  paper  on  a  framework  of  lathe.  But, 
observe,  that  to  prevent  its  be^ng  lost  in  the  freedom 
of  space,  we  must  attach  it  tightly  to  earth  ;    and 


SIMILITUDES   WINDOWS  OF  THOUGHT.    423 

observe,  again,  my  dear,  that  the  higher  it  soars,  the 
more  string  we  must  give  it.' "  Thus  a  wise  man, 
as  in  this  example  from  "  The  Caxtons,"  makes 
worthless  things  prqach  great  sermons.  Great 
is  the  use  in  a  discourse  of  a  happy  image,  clear 
and  sharply  defined  to  the  eye.  As  Fuller  has  said, 
images  and  similitudes  are  the  windows  of  thought ; 
for  their  power  to  open  the  avenues  for  light  to  stream 
into  the  understanding,  we  have  often  been  re- 
minded of  the  beautiful,  happy  verses  of  Bishop, 
a  truthful  and  thoughtful  English  poet,  almost 
forgotten  now ; — 

"  When,  throug-h  a  chink,  a  darkened  room 
Admits  the  solar  beam, 
Down  the  long  light  that  breaks  the  gloom 
Millions  of  atoms  stream. 

In  sparkling  agitation  bright 

Alternate  dyes  they  bear, 
Too  small  for  any  sense  but  sight. 

Or  any  sight  but  there. 

Nature  reveals  not  all  her  store 

To  human  search  or  skill, 
But  when  she  deigns  to  show  us  more. 

She  shows  us  beauty  still." 

Images  and  similitudes  are  the  pictures  of  the 
soul,  and  memory  hangs  them  up  in  her  long  gallery, 
and  frequently  reads  in  them  the  history  of  some 
abstract  thought,  some  recondite  argument ;  by  the 
light  they  afford  the  structure  of  a  syllogism  may 
be  easily  forgotten,  the  pathway  of  a  discourse  may 
be  easily  lost  to  the  memory;  but  a  felicitous  and 
graphic  picture  will  abide.  Elder  and  younger  will 
alike  bear  it  away,  and  refer  to  it  again  and 
again.    An  apposite  figure  in  a  Sunday-school  lesson 


424     USE  AND  ABUSE  OE  THE  IMAGINATION: 

may  chance  to  be  repeated  by  the  children  for 
generations  to  come.  Logic  may  be  an  admirable 
lantern,  but  a  parable,  a  similitude,  is  the  light 
within  the  lantern,  without  which  its  usefulness  must 
be  very  questionable.  Prize,  therefore,  the  gift  of 
parables.  A  preacher  should  determine,  anyhow, 
to  be  interesting  ;  he  must  not  be  guilty  of  mere 
talk  or  interminable  loquaciousness.  Great  preachers 
are  interesting  preachers,  as  great  writers  are  inter- 
esting writers.  That  great  moralist,  Mrs.  Poyser, 
used  to  say, "  Some  folks'  tongues  are  like  the  clocks, 
as  run  on  striking,  not  to  tell  you  the  time  of  the 
day,  but  because  there's  summat  wrong  i'  their 
insides."  "  Give  us  lessons,  not  laces,"  said  Thomas 
Adams.  "  A  garment,"  he  continues,  "  to  have  here 
and  there  a  fringe,  or  button,  or  jewel,  is  comely  ;  to 
be  nothing  but  buttons  is  ridiculous.  We  will  make 
the  borders  of  gold,  with  studs  of  silver.  Divinity 
is  that  border  of  gold,  human  learning  the  studs  of 
silver." 

Some  preachers  have  made  their  sermon  one  long 
sustained  allegory ;  it  would  shock  the  fastidious 
taste,  but  perhaps  only  in  reading,  not  if  the  reader 
of  the  reported  sermon  had  been  one  of  the 
hearers.  William  Dawson,  Billy  Dawson,  as  he  was, 
and  is  familiarly  called  throughout  the  north  of 
England,  has  not  so  long  left  us,  but  that  there 
are  many  who  recall  his  genial  and  kindly  nature, 
and  his  graphic  delineations  and  overwhelming 
power  over  every  audience  he  addressed.  He  was 
a  Methodist,  one  of  a  race  to  whom  the  excitement 
of  a  religious  service  is  understood  to  be  normal  and 
indigenous.     Thus,  wlicn  he  preached  from  the  text. 


THE  SAINTS  SHOUTING  FOR  JOY.        425 

"  Who  crowneth  thee  with  lovingkhidness  and  tender 
mercies,"  his  imagination  took  fire  at  the  metaphor, 
and  there  was  presented  to  him,  and  he  presented 
to  his  hearers,  a  crown,  a  royal  coronet,  studded 
with  precious  stones  innumerable,  of  every  colour, 
but  with  a  central  stone  of  surpassing  magnitude, 
brilliancy,  and  value  ;  consentaneously  this  became 
the  crown  of  lovingkindness  and  tender  mercies,  the 
countless  brilliants  represented  the  blessings  of 
Providence  and  Grace,  and  the  centre  stone  the 
priceless  jewel  of  Salvation.  To  express  this  as 
he  wished  was  more  difficult  than  to  conceive  it, 
and  several  feeble  sentences  were  uttered  before  the 
crown  was  shown  to  the  people.  But  when,  at 
length,  it  was  exhibited  in  all  its  radiant  glory, 
with  its  centre  gem  of  purest  lustre,  and  the  deep 
crimson  and  ruby  lights  caught  up,  reflected,  and 
inflowing  with  diamond  splendours  from  a  thousand 
lights  by  the  precious  stones  which  clustered  round 
it,  and  when  he  exclaimed,  "  He  has  crowned  us  ! — 
Saints  of  God,  let  us  crown  Him  ! "  you  should 
have  heard  how  they  shouted  for  joy,  realizing  the 
fine  verse, — 

"  Daughters  of  Zion,  come,  behold 
A  crown  of  glory  and  of  gold  ; 
Which  the  glad  Church,  with  joy  unknown, 
Placed  o'er  the  head  of  Solomon  !  " 

One  of  the  hearers  present  said  afterwards,  "  The 
saints  shouted  aloud  for  joy  !  " 

When  we  were  young,  we  heard  Billy  Dawson 
preach  ;  his  subject  was  the  end  of  the  building  oi 
the  Ark,  and  the  story  of  the  flood.  He  gave  out 
his  text,  "  The  Lord  shut  him  in."      But  he  had  no 


426     USE  AND  ABUSE  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


sooner  announced  the  text  than  he  said,  "  This  will 
not  do."  He  opened  the  pulpit  door  again,  and 
went  down  the  somewhat  long  circular  pulpit  stairs, 
and,  from  what  is  called  the  class- leaders'  pew,  he 
imagined  himself  to  be  Noah  ;  the  pulpit  was  the 
ark  which  he  was  building  ;  it  was  the  Church, 
built  out  of  the  wreck  of  a  doomed  world.  While 
he  was  preaching,  he  was  also  building  the  ark  ;  he 
was  felling  the  trees,  he  was  sawing  the  planks  and 
the  timbers  ;  he  was  adjusting  the  building,  he  was 
expostulating  with  unbelievers  and  scoffers ;  and  still, 
amidst  all  the  preaching  and  building,  he  was  to  his 
hearers,  almost  unconsciously,  ascending,  step  by 
step,  the  pulpit  stairs  ;  he  was  going  up  into  the 
ark.  At  last  all  was  finished,  all  were  in,  and  he 
was  there.  Then  the  pulpit  door  was  closed  with 
a  tremendous  slam, — "  And  the  Lord  shut  him  in  !" 
Then  came  the  flood,  the  winds  rose,  the  rains  fell, 
the  thunders  rolled,  and  the  lightnings  glared  over 
the  billows  ;  rocks  and  trees  were  hurled  and  torn 
down,  and  overwhelmed  the  lost  as  they  went  floating 
by  on  the  waves.  The  pulpit  was  the  ark  ;  the  ark 
was  the  Church,  riding  in  safety  over  the  billows  of 
time,  over  a  lost  and  wicked  world.  Oh  !  we  are 
afraid  in  that  congregation  all  were,  in  the  spirit 
of  the  famous  sermon  of  Jonathan  Edwards,  rejoic- 
ing over  the  judgment  of  the  ungodly;  "Hallelujah!" 
said  the  preacher;  "Hallelujah!"  echoed  a  voice  in 
the  gallery  ;  and  then  another,  and  then  another, 
and  then  another!  When  we  have  reached  a  certain 
height  of  emotion  there  is  no  help  for  it  ;  ordinary 
words  and  ejaculations  are  insufficient  ;  we  must 
sing  1  Somebody  shouted,  "Now  is  come  Salvation!" 


IT  SEIZES  THE  INNERMOST.  427 

The  people  were  ready,  the  whole  congregation 
swayed  to  and  fro  on  the  voice  of  praise  which 
arrested  the  preacher  in  the  midst  of  his  description. 

"  Salvation,  oh,  the  joyful  sound,"  was  unitedly 
chanted  forth  by  the  whole  of  that  mighty  mass. 
We  are  reciting  a  memory,  but  we  suppose  most  of 
our  readers  will  regard  this  as  an  abuse  of  the 
imagination.  Such  a  scene  is  inconceivable  to  those 
accustomed  to  the  decent  order  of  Church  service  ; 
but  in  the  freer  places  of  Methodist  worship,  and 
from  a  preacher  unique  in  character,  and  not  bound 
by  conventional  usages,  this  forcible  and  homely 
oratory  wielded  an  amazing  power. 

But  imagination  does  greater  things  than  this  ;  as 
we  have  said,  it  seizes  the  innermost.  We  have 
also  said,  the  question  should  be  asked,  whether 
fable,  allegory,  analogy,  or  illustration  be  used, 
does  that  help  .''  The  use  of  the  imagination,  in 
the  speaker,  should  embody  ;  in  the  hearer,  it  should 
unbosom.  We  may  recall  the  words  and  the 
emotions  of  Byron  in  the  tempest,  and  how  he 
transferred  all  the  uproar  and  terror  of  the  tempest 
and  the  storm  to  his  own  nature.  Shall  we  cite  a 
verse  or  two  }  But  notice,  we  do  not  cite  for  the 
poem,  but  for  what  the  poet  deduces  from  the  scene. 

"And  this  is  night :  most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth.* 


428     USE  AND  ABUSE  OF  THE  IMA  GIN  A  TION. 

Then,  as  we  have  said,  he  felt  that  the  vehement 
energy  of  the  storm  translated  and  expounded  to 
him  his  own  nature ;  was  the  adequate — scarcely, 
but  still,  representatively,  adequate — illustration  of 
the  slumbering  passions  in  his  soul  ;  so  that,  as  he 
looked  upon  the  storm,  he  was  able  to  say.  There  ! 
there  it  is ;  that  is  what  I  have  known  ;  that  is 
what  I  have  felt ! 

"  Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  !  ye  1 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul. 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;   the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests  !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ?  " 

And  now  this  is  the  verse  : — 

"Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 

That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I  wreak 

My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 

Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, — 

All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek. 

Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe  into  one  word — 

And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak; 

But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard. 

With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword." 

So  the  storm  was  only  the  equation  of  one  portion 
of  the  great  poet's  nature,  and  we  are  afraid  he 
never  saw  the  satisfying,  the  adequate  equation. 
But  thus  every  noble  image  enables  the  hearer  to 
exclaim,  There !  there  it  is !  that  is  my  embodied 
feeling!  Now  I  see  it,  now  I  understand  it  so  far 
as  I  can  be  made  to  understand  ;  that  expresses  it ! 


FREDERICK  ROBERTSON. 


429 


and  thus  it  is  that  the  imagination  seizes  the  inner- 
most. This  is  the  real  imagination  ;  hence  it  is 
such  an  art,  such  an  influence,  and  such  power.  How 
subhme  when  this  is  brought  to  bear  on  the  em- 
bodying the  great  truths,  the  noble  characteristics 
of  the  Christian  life  ;  when  meanings  stand  revealed, 
by  the  mingled  lights  of  Divine  teaching  and  human 
experience,  in  the  elevated  and  thoughtful  soul  ; 
floating  feelings  transformed  into  convictions  and 
definite  and  determinate  perceptions,  powers  in  the 
character  and  the  life,  as  well  as  tremendous  attesta- 
tions of  the  speaker's  genius.  Many  readers  will 
think  Frederick  Robertson  did  not  express  the  whole 
truth  of  the  Christian  life  and  faith  in  the  following 
passages  ;  but,  in  all  his  own  subtlety  of  eloquence 
and  insight,  he  expresses  that  faculty  of  the  imagina- 
tion to  which  we  have  alluded  : — 

"Or,  again,  we  must  all  have  felt,  when  certain  eflects 
in  nature,  combinations  of  form  and  colour,  have  been 
presented  to  us,  our  own  idea  speaking  in  intelligent  and 
yet  celestial  language  ;  when,  for  instance,  the  long  bars  of 
purple,  '  edged  with  intolerable  radiance,'  seemed  to  float 
in  a  sea  of  pale  pure  green,  when  the  whole  sky  seemed  to 
reel  with  thunder,  when  the  night-wind  moaned.  It  is 
wonderful  how  the  most  commonplace  men  and  women, 
beings  who,  as  you  would  have  thought,  had  no  conception 
that  rose  beyond  a  commercial  speculation,  or  a  fashionable 
entertainment,  are  elevated  by  such  scenes ;  how  the  slumber- 
ing grandeur  of  their  nature  wakes  and  acknowledges  kindred 
with  the  sky  and  storm.  *I  cannot  speak,'  they  would  say, 
'the  feelings  which  are  in  me;  I  have  had  emotions, 
aspirations,  thoughts;  I  cannot  put  them  into  words.  Look 
there !  listen  now  to  the  storm !    That  is  what  I  meant, 


430     USE  AND  ABUSE  OF  THE  IMA GINATION. 

only  I  never  could  say  it  out  till  now.'  Thus  do  art  and 
nature  speak  for  us,  and  thus  do  we  adopt  them  as  our 
own.  This  is  the  way  in  which  His  righteousness  becomes 
righteousness  for  us.  This  is  the  way  in  which  the  heart 
presents  to  God  the  sacrifice  of  Christ;  gazing  on  that 
perfect  Life,  we,  as  it  were,  say,  '  There,  that  is  my  religion 
— that  is  my  righteousness — what  I  want  to  be,  which  I  am 
not — that  is  my  offering,  my  life  as  I  would  wish  to  give  it, 
freely  and  not  checked,  entire  and  perfect.'  So  the  old 
prophets,  their  hearts  big  with  unutterable  thoughts,  searched 
•  what  or  what  manner  of  time  the  Spirit  of  Christ  which 
■was  in  them  did  signify,  when  it  testified  beforehand  of  the 
sufferings  of  Christ,  and  of  the  glory  which  should  follow  ; ' 
and  so  with  us,  until  it  passes  into  prayer :  *  My  Saviour, 
fill  up  the  blurred  and  blotted  sketch  which  my  clumsy 
hand  has  drawn  of  a  Divine  life  with  the  fulness  of  Thy 
perfect  picture.  I  feel  the  beauty  which  I  cannot  realize  : — 
robe  me  in  Thine  unutterable  purity  : — 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee.'" 

This,  we  repeat,  is  the  preacher's  work  with  the 
imagination  ;  hence  it  is  that  it  is  such  an  art,  and 
that  it  exerts  such  an  influence,  and  such  a  power. 
Yes,  and  hence  it  is  that  floating  feelings  are 
transformed  into  convictions,  fancies  become  realiza- 
tions, and  surmises  revelations ;  and,  let  us  say, 
that  is  the  reason  why  people  sing, — 

"  Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul,  let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly," 

or — 

**  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee !  " 

They  have  looked  to  Jesus,  and  said.  There !  there  ! 
that   is  what    I   want    to   be,  but  what  I   am  not ! 


POWER   OF  THE  PARABLE.  431 

there  is  my  idea  embodied  ;  there  is  my  reh'gion  ; 
there  is  the  perfect  picture,  the  perfect  beauty,  the 
infinite  holiness  ;  robe  me  in  it,  and  wrap  it  round 
me,  and  let  the  divine  pleroma  and  fulness  of  Thy 
Person  be  my  peace.* 

Referring  to  the  power  of  the  parable  in  teaching, 
Mr.  Lynch  very  beautifully  says  of  the  parables  of 
our  Lord, — 

"He  spoke  of  lilies,  vines,  and  com, 
The  sparrow,  and  the  raven, 
And  words  so  natural,  yet  so  wise. 

Were  on  man's  heart  engraven  ; 
And  yeast,  and  bread,  and  flax,  and  cloth. 

And  eggs,  and  fish,  and  candles ; 
See,  how  the  whole  familiar  world 
He  most  divinely  handles." 

In  a  word,  the  divinest  teacher  was  the  most 
familiar,  so  that  "  the  common  people  heard  Him 
gladly,"  and  said,  "  Never  man  spake  like  this  man  ; " 
so  that  all  common  things  became  types.  Analogies 
are  as  windows  through  which  light  streams  into 
the  perceptions  and  the  understanding.  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  that  mightiest  master  of  illustration  in  the 
pulpit,  has  in  a  beautiful  passage  not  unknown  to 
our  readers  recapitulated  these  illustrations.  Go 
over  the  house,  the  lowest  stone  says  in  the  silence 
of  the  night,  "  Other  foundation  can  no  man  lay  ; " 
and  the  door  says,  "  I  am  the  door ; "  and  the 
candle,  by  the  bedside  or  in  the  room,  says,  "  Christ 

*  The  Sermons  of  Christmas  Evans  abound  with  these 
sustained  allegories,  which  are,  in  truth,  histories  of  the 
human  soul.  We  do  not  quote  them  here,  but  hope  we  may, 
•without  impertinence,  refer  to  "  Christmas  Evans,  the  Preacher 
of  Wild  Wales,"  by  Paxton  Hood.    Hodder  &  Stoughton. 


432     USE  AND  ABUSE  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

is  the  Light  of  the  world  ; "  and,  as  you  ga^.e  on 
the  little  one,  simple,  earnest,  real,  and  inquiring, 
a  voice  says,  "  Except  j>/^  become  as  little  children  ;" 
or  on  the  table  the  loaf  says,  "  Broken  for  you  ; " 
and  the  water  says,  "  I  am  the  water  of  Life ; "  and 
the  very  roof  of  your  house  tells  of  the  time 
when  God's  House  shall  receive  its  top  stone.  The 
ground  is  full  of  sympathy;  the  flowers  say,  "Consider 
us  ; "  and  the  trees,  the  birds,  and  even  the  sparrows 
tell  the  story  of  Providence.  And  the  hen,  as  she 
gathers  her  chickens,  and  the  sheep  that  bleat  on 
their  pastures,  and  the  serpent,  and  the  hungry  wolf, 
and  the  raven,  and  the  plough,  and  the  sickle,  and 
the  barn — Christ  made  them  all  teachers  and 
preachers. 

Thus  the  words  of  Christ  and  the  parables  of 
Christ  became  the  folk-lore  of  the  people,  and  they 
may  be  spoken  of  at  present  as  the  folk-lore  of 
the  New  Testament,  and  to  read  them  is  to  read 
the  folk-lore  of  those  times,  as  the  people's  book 
in  the  people's  language,  to  which  there  is  no 
approach  among  all  the  books  and  preachings  and 
teaching  in  the  world.  Christ  adopted  this  expe- 
dient to  reach  the  ears  and  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
and,  although  there  are  other  parables,  all  have 
acknowledged  that  the  parables  of  Christ  claim 
pre-eminence  over  all  others  for  variety,  simplicity, 
appositeness,  and  beauty  ;  and  it  is  felt  that  no 
other  mode  of  instruction  could  so  well  engage  the 
attention,  or  interest  the  feelings,  or  impress  the 
conscience,  as  the  method  adopted  by  our  Lord  ; 
and  while  they  all  fell  so  easily,  and  while  we  all 
read   that   the   people    "wondered   at   the   gracious 


VAL  UE  OF  IL  L  USTRA  TION.  433 

words  which  proceeded  out  of  His  mouth,"  we  feel  that 
they  all  glow  with  a  splendour  as  from  an  unseen 
sun.  They  are  all  the  simplest  things  linked  with 
another,  a  wonderful,  subduing,  and  yet  elevating 
light.  It  is  as  when,  after  travelling  through  the 
night,  in  the  light  of  the  early  morning,  we  draw 
near  to  a  great  city,  and  see  cupola,  towers,  and 
spire  shining  in  the  light  of  the  morning  sun. 
They  are  all  common  things,  and  are  to  be  seen 
every  day,  but,  perhaps,  not  from  that  point  of 
view,  and  not  in  that  light.  As,  then,  all  common 
things  shine  out,  even  like  a  city  glowing  and  flashing 
in  the  light  of  a  coming  sun,  so  all  these  common 
things  glow  with  the  glory  and  splendour  of  a  far- 
off  world,  and,  beneath  the  beauty  of  the  parable,  the 
things  of  an  unseen  world  come  to  view,  and  they 
are  all  bathed  in  a  comfortable  supernatural  light. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  for  the  purpose  of 
teaching,  one  illustration  is  worth  a  thousand  abstrac- 
tions; they  are  the  windows  of  speech,  through  them 
truths  shine,  and  ordinary  minds  fail  to  perceive 
truth  clearly  unless  it  be  presented  to  them  through 
this  medium.  One  of  the  most  loved  methods  of 
illustration  ever  has  been  the  parable,  but  this 
is  a  high,  rare,  and,  shall  we  say,  a  difficult  power. 
Children  love  tales,  fairy  tales,  parables.  The 
better  sort  of  grown-up  children,  we  fancy,  like 
them  too ;  for,  indeed,  they  are  constantly  doing 
that  for  us  which  we  are  trying  to  do  for  ourselves 
in  one  way  or  other,  namely,  to  realize.  This  is  the 
hidden  charm  of  the  story-teller :  he  gives  "  a  local 
habitation  and  a  name"  to 

"  Thoughts  which  wander  through  Eternity.'* 

2  8 


434     USE  AND  ABUSE  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

From  thoughts  and  worlds  not  r(?aHzed  he  brings  the 
abstract  and  wandering  spirit  hoilie,  and  "  imprisons 
the   dainty   Ariel."       No   man    will   be    a   favourite 
talker  to  children  who  does  not  speak  in  parables, 
and     the    teacher    to    mighty     multitudes    will    be 
efficient    in    proportion    to   his    power  of   wielding 
admirably  the  parable.      The  parable  may  be,  is,  and 
has  been  much  abused,  but  no  power  is  so   likely 
to  awaken   in  an  auditor  the  listening  ear,  and   to 
furnish     the     understanding    heart.       This    is    that 
power  which  John    Bunyan  glorified  with  his  pen, 
and  which  made  Christmas  Evans  the  most  popular 
preacher  in  his  country  ;  Goethe  delighted  to  use  it. 
In  no  other   way  can   the  subtleties  and   sophisms 
of  the  intellect  be  so  completely  elucidated.      Thus, 
the  phantasmagoria  of  the   mind    are  thrown  upon 
the  painter's  canvas,  and  thus  is  fulfilled  the  great 
injunction  of  the  ancient,  "  Paint  your  ideas."     Put 
them  into  such  a  shape  that  you  can  look  at  them, 
and  permit  others  to  look  at   them.      The   parable 
is,  to  the  abstractions  of  the  mind,  what  the  experi- 
ment is  to  chemistry,  what  the  diagram  is  to  mathe- 
matics or  natural  philosophy.     Well-told  parables  are 
the  diagrams  of  metaphysics  and   psychology,  and  if 
you  will,  of  theology  too.      If  the  only  Master  who 
could    teach    infinite   truth   did    not    disdain    them, 
why  should  His  disciples  .-'     Well  said   Lord  Bacon, 
"  Parables  are  more  ancient  than  arguments,"  and  the 
author  of  the  proverb  shows  his  faith  in  it  by  his 
frequent   practice  of   the    ancient    principle.      John 
Wesley  required  of  all  his  young  preachers  that  they 
should    study,    among    other  books,    "  The    Faerie 
Queene ; "    and    it    is    well    known    that    Jonathan 


PARABLES  OLDER   THAN  ARGUMENT.    435 


Edwards  became  a  better  preacher  after  reading 
"Clarissa  Harlowe;"  and  certainly  we  believe,  a 
course  of  judicious  fiction  would  be  as  beneficial  in 
training  for  the  pulpit  as  a  course  of  reading  in 
mental  or  moral  science. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

HENRY  MEL  VILL. 

"That  tliis  style  is  often  extravagantly  admired  is  quite  true — nay, 
even  the  downright  florid  is  not  without  its  admirers  ;  but  it  is  not  the 
less  inefiective  for  that.  This  very  admiration,  as  it  is  too  often  the 
subtle  motion  which  has  beguiled  the  speaker  into  such  a  vicious  mode 
of  treating  his  subject,  so  it  at  once  affords  a  solution  of  the  seeming 
paradox  ;  for  it  shows  that  the  minds  of  the  auditors  are  fixed  rather 
upon  the  man  than  the  subject ;  less  upon  the  truths  inculcated  than 
upon  the  genius  which  has  embellished  them." — Henry  Rogers, 
"  Sacred  Eloquence." 

IT  is  as  natural  and  as  necessary  for  London  to 
have  some  great  attraction  for  the  Sabbath — 
some  lion  for  the  pulpit — as  to  have  attractions  of 
a  more  worldly  nature  for  the  week ;  and  there 
usually  is  some  one  place  to  which  the  people  stream, 
at  the  gates  of  which  you  behold  scores  of  carriages 
and  cabs,  the  haunt  of  fashion — the  place  of  glitter- 
ing Bibles,  gilded  hj^mn  and  Prayer-books,  of  soft 
cushions,  crimson  hangings,  and  tassels.  There  are 
many  requisites  which  must  meet  to  produce  a 
success  so  decided  as  this.  The  preacher  should  be 
a  Conservative,  a  minister  of  the  Church  of  England, 
or  Scotland,  eloquent,  floridly  so,  a  commanding  and 
attractive  figure,  a  full  and  sonorous  voice ;  he  should 
be  anti-Romanist,  strongly  attached  to  the  order  of 
things  as  by  law  established,  have  a  slight  spice  of 


NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  PHARISAISM.     433 


eccentricity  of  opinion,  or  manner,  a  respectable  (all 
the  better  if  an  aristocratic)  standing  in  society.    Most 
of  these  qualifications  have  combined  in  those  prea- 
chers who  have  been  the  magnets  of  the  metropolis  — 
they  met,  for  the  most  part,  in  Edward  Irving,  in  Dr. 
Gumming,  and  Baptist  Noel;  they  met  eminently  in 
Henry  Melvill.      And  we  must  say  it,  while  we  are 
writing,    we    do    not    much    like    these    fashionable 
audiences  or  fashionable  preachers.      Mr.  Thackeray 
never  knew  any  case  so  bad  as  that  of  which  he  has 
given   a  false  picture  in  "  The    Newcomes,"   in  the 
portrait  of  the   Rev.   Mr.  Honeyman,  and  his  church 
and  congregation  ;   that  is  a  libel,  a  mere  caricature, 
reflecting  little  credit  on  the  writer,  and  only  proving 
how  much  a  man   may  know   the   world,  and   how 
profound,  therefore,  his  ignorance  may  be  of  religious 
circles.      Still,  fashionable  congregations  have  a  taint 
of  Pharisaism    in    them.     To    such  a   congregation 
you   must  go  if  you  would  see  the  Pharisee  in  full 
bloom  ;  it  is   precisely  there   that  the  Tangles  and 
the  Trimwells  worship  ;  there  the  Pharisee  can  make 
broad  his  phylacteries,  which  he  has  no  opportunity 
to  do  in  a  humble  church  or  conventicle.     We  are 
thinking  of  preachers,  but  it  would  be  as  interesting 
a  work  to  sketch  auditors  and  temples  ;  for  instance, 
the  Natural  History  of  a  Pharisee.     Like  other  social 
creatures,  he   is  a  being  who  has  only  changed  his 
vesture.    Sects  perish;  the  heart  of  the  sect  does  not 
die,  it  animates  new  frames.      These  Pharisees,  how 
much  we  have  heard  of  them!  we  have  learned  to 
speak  of  them  with  contempt,  with  horror.     Did  they 
not  resist  the  teachings  of  our  Lord  ?      Did  they  not 
attempt    to    kill  Him  repeatedly?     Eventually  did 


438  HENR  Y  MEL  VILL. 

they  not  do  so  ?  did  they  not  seek  to  calumniate 
and  blacken  His  memory?  did  they  not  persecute  the 
apostles,  and  intercept  their  teachings  ?  Yes  ;  yet, 
after  all,  is  not  the  Pharisee  a  type  man,  an  antique 
symbol  of  a  modern  character  ?  Change  the  name 
and  the  dress,  and  the  portrait  may  do  as  well  for 
modern  England  and  the  temples  of  London  as  for 
Jerusalem  and  its  Temple.  When  we  approach  the 
blaze  of  a  fashionable  church  or  chapel,  we  always 
seem  to  hear  a  voice  saying,  "  Beware  of  the  leaven 
of  the  Pharisees  !  " 

For,  in  a  word,  the  Pharisee  is  one  whose  aim 
is  rather  to  Seem  than  to  Be.  Being  is  Christian, 
Seeming  is  Pharisaic.  Being  is  a  body,  Pharisaism 
is  a  cloak.  Being  inquires.  What  am  If  Pharisaism 
inquires,  How  do  I  look  }  Being  solicits  conscious- 
ness of  goodness ;  Seeming  solicits  a  reputation 
for  it.  Being,  however  apparently  weak,  is  at  all 
times  strong  ;  Seeming,  however  apparently  strong, 
it  at  all  times  weak.  Seeming  is  always  poor,  a 
bankrupt  desirous  of  being  thought  rich  ;  Being  is 
always  rich,  though  esteeming  himself  poor.  Seem- 
ing built  a  palace  to  keep  up  appearances  ;  Being 
built  a  cottage  to  seek  for  comfort  and  happiness. 
Seeming  rolls  to  church  in  a  carriage,  with  liveried 
footmen,  and  purple  velvet  Prayer-book,  because  it 
is  the  established  order  of  things  ;  Being  walks  to 
church  with  the  penitential  soul  to  worship  in 
humility  the  God  and  Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  How  rich  must  be  the  delight  to  seem,  and 
to  have  the  reputation  for  being  what  we  are  not ! 
Could  not  the  tailors  make  a  cloak  or  coat  called 
the    Pharisee    instead    of   the    Paletot   of  the   good 


YOUTHFUL  MEMORIES   OF  MELVILL.      439 

broadcloth  called  Seeming,  edged  with  beautiful 
evangelical  muslin  or  cambric  ? 

But  with  remarks  quite  too  severe  we  are  standing 
here  in  the  lobby  looking  at  the  carriages  driving  up 
to  the  door,  when  it  is  our  business  to  forget  the 
audience  and  their  carriages,  their  silks,  ermine,  and 
sables,  their  gold,  purple,  and  crimson,  and  step 
within  to  receive  the  Word   for  ourselves. 

These  remarks  are  wholly  and  altogether  to  be 
separated  from   the  preacher. 

Our  boyish  memories  hover  round  Camden  Chapel. 
Many  a  time  did  -our  own  good  minister  take  us  tole- 
rably smartly  to  task  for  our  dereliction  from  attend- 
ance in  due  propriety  upon  our  own  proper  service. 
In  truth,  Chrysostom  Melvill — Melvill  of  the  Golden 
Mouth — had  wonderful  power  over  us  in  those  days  ; 
and  there  are  few  parts  of  Camden  Chapel  where  the 
print  of  our  feet  has  not  been.  Sometimes,  perched 
aloft  in  the  gallery  by  the  organ;  sometimes,  standing 
in  the  aisle;  sometimes,  near  the  great  preacher  him- 
self, we  touched  his  robes  as  he  swept  by  us  into  the 
pulpit,  and  what  an  honour  did  we  feel  that  to  be  ! 
From  him  we  heard  the  first  decided  pealings  of  the 
awful  organ  tones  of  eloquence  ;  and  in  the  matter 
of  pulpit  oratory,  we  know  not  that  we  have  heard 
anything  transcending  them.  Our  opinion  may  have 
altered  (at  that  time  we  scarcely  had  what  was  worth 
calling  such)  as  to  what  constitutes  the  best  pulpit 
style,  but  there  is  no  doubt  in  our  minds  now,  that 
the  most  chivalric  notes  of  eloquent  thought  fell 
from  the  lips  of  Henry  Melvill.  In  those  days 
Parsons  captivated  our  feelings — Melvill  inspired 
our  intellect.      All  that  we  can   almost  conceive    of 


440  HENRY  MELVILL. 

eloquence,  short  of  the  absolute  height  and  inspira- 
tion, is  included  in  those  memories.  A  voice,  not 
low,  but  naturally  loud  and  clear,  and  capable  of 
every  varying  expression.  How  deep  the  pathos 
and  tenderness,  tears  attested.  Now  it  was  like  the 
sobbing  of  winds  among  the  boughs,  like  the  wail 
of  mourning  birds  sorrowing  for  the  mate — now  the 
trembling  intonations  surged  and  heaved  along  ! — 
now  grief  and  pity  swelled,  and  sank  alternately  in 
those  rich  notes  ! — and  now,  like  the  swell  of  a 
trumpet,  the  spirit  mounted  from  the  domains  of 
grief.  Loudly  rang  the  clarion  ;  now  martial,  now 
defiant,  the  words  rushed  forth,  ready  armed,  gifted, 
and  graced  with  all  the  gorgeousness  of  a  quickened 
imagination.  We  have  never  since  so  truly  heard 
the  pomp  of  words.  Sometimes  this  pomp  hovered 
upon  the  borders  of  inflation,  but,  usually,  their 
march  was  like  a  glittering  host,  in  steel  and  shining 
accoutrements,  reflecting  back  the  magnificence  of 
the  sunshine.  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  evening 
immense  was  the  audience,  and  over  their  ears  the 
words  most  literally  rolled,  subduing,  melting,  appal- 
ling. There  was,  indeed,  no  appeal  to  the  feelings 
themselves.  The  imagery  did  not  hang  like  foliage 
upon  a  stemless  tree  ;  it  decorated  richly  though  not 
gracefully,  and  far  too  gorgeously,  the  porches  of 
thought.  In  many  of  our  first  feeble  ascents  up  the 
hill  of  intellectual  difficulty  we  were  indebted  to  this 
training  hand.  Henry  Melvill  first  taught  us  to 
sing — Excelsior. 

Drawing  the  distinction,  which  we  own  to  be 
somewhat  difficult  to  draw,  between  Sermons  and 
Orations — a   distinction    which    yet    appears   purely 


AS  AA^  ORATOR.  441 

arbitrary — the  compositions  of  Melvill  merit  the 
term  Orations.*  They  are  not  teachings,  in  the 
better  sense  of  the  word.  They  abound  with  ideas, 
but  the  ideas  are  so  ampHfied,  and  illustrated  by 
imaginative  diction,  that  they  derive  their  lustre 
frequently  more  from  their  setting,  than  from  them- 
selves. We  have  lately  wished,  in  reading,  and  even 
in  hearing,  too,  that  the  thought  presented  itself  in 
a  plainer  drapery  ;  it  is  rhetorical,  the  key-note  is 
pitched  high,  and  the  torrent  flows  on,  without  a 
breather  a  pause.  Yes,  it  must  be  admitted,  and  we 
see  it  now,  that  there  was  in  it  too  much  of  the 
delivery  of  a  composition.  How  delightful,  how 
glorious,  so  to  speak,  is  it  to  see  volition  in  the 
pulpit ;  to  believe  that  the  mind  is  working  there, 
that  it,  too,  is  a  study,  that  the  preacher  is  indeed  at 
home,  that  he  is  not  the  slave  of  a  mechanical 
formulary  of  thought,  that  he  can  step  aside  from 
his  previous  cogitations,  and  seize  a  passing  con- 
ception or  emotion  !  And  is  the  man  who  cannot 
do  this,  who  does  not  habitually  do  this,  fitted  for 
a  preacher  ?  Or,  are  we  to  understand  that  nothing 
should  be  said  in  the  pulpit  that  has  not  been  pre- 
viously written,  and  arranged,  mentally  in  the 
pacings  of  the  study,  and  verbally  on   paper  ? 

Perhaps  Mr.  Melvill's  system  was  opposed  to  this; 
he  invariably  read.  His  sermons  differed  in  the 
degree    of   elaboration    most    obviously,    and    some 

*  It  has  been  usual  to  call  the  discourses  of  John  Gough 
orations.  This  is  ludicrous  ;  they  have  not  one  characteristic 
of  the  oration, — that  is,  an  unbroken  flow  of  eloquence.  The 
discourses  of  M'All,  Chalmers,  Irving,  were  orations;  Cough's, 
"amusements." 


442  HENR  Y  MEL  VILL. 

indicate  but  little  thought  or  preparation,  while  some 
lead  to  the  inference  that  the  preacher  was  unable 
to  resist  those  impulses  to  speak  impromptu,  which 
all  true  orators  know,  and  which,  when  felt  in  all 
their  full  intensity,  are,  to  him,  like  the  very  emotions 
of  high  prophetic  passion  and  power,  and  are  to  the 
people  an  occasion  for  deep  and  rapturous  enjoy- 
ment. Yet  this  orator  seems  to  know  but  little  of 
the  play  spirit  of  Schiller.  "  We  are  never  great," 
said  that  great  soul,  "  but  when  we  play  ;  " — that  is, 
all  that  is  truly  great  is  done  easily,  simply,  naturally; 
and,  perhaps,  it  may  be  said  that  he  who  does  not 
his  work,  any  work,  in  this  mood,  thinking  or  speak- 
ing, or  any  other  kind  of  labour,  has  not  yet  found 
the  work  he  should  do.  Certainly,  he  has  not  found 
the  way  in  which  he  should  do  it.  It  is  very  hard, 
it  is  very  difficult  to  disrobe  the  idols  of  our  first 
intellectual  affections,  and  it  seems  to  us  that  it 
should  ever  be  done  reverently  and  most  lovingly. 
But  thus,  then,  we  think  we  have  found  the  defection 
of  the  Chrysostom  of  our  boyhood — the  play  spirit 
is  wanting — the  ease,  the  grace  of  the  soul.  What 
is  the  proper  attitude  for  the  pulpit  1  What  should 
be  the  standard  of  pulpit  dignity  }  Are  invective 
and  declamation  dignified  at  all  1  How  long  can  we 
tolerate  them  }  Pathos  and  description,  that  they, 
too,  may  be  successful, — do  we  not  demand  that 
they  should  do  their  work  for  the  most  part  with  a 
stroke,  a  single  flash  "i  This  hanging  breathless  on 
the  lips  of  oratory  and  eloquence,  startling  as  it  may 
seem,  is  it  not  a  very  useless  and  almost  unemotional 
thing  "i  Very  frequently  the  true  idea  is  wonder, 
wonder  that  the  machine  should  go  on  at  that  rate, 


CHALMERS  AND  MELVILL.  443 

wonder  that  the  man  there  should  possess  the  power 
of  pelting  us  with  such  a  heap  of  words  ;  and  that, 
when  the  pelting  is  over,  we  should  feel  no  soreness, 
that  perhaps  not  one  of  them  all  should  hit  us.  This 
is  very  much  the  character  of  the  rhetorician  ;  this  is 
ever  the  fault  of  tropes,  gorgeous  diction,  and  rounded 
periods  ;  they  are  upon  the  whole  so  impressionless, 
so  useless,  the  man  of  taste  does  not  need  them,  the 
illiterate  man  does  not  understand  them  ;  while  the 
Christian,  be  he  minister  or  hearer,  must  surely 
regret  the  time  expended  in  polishing  the  mere  gew- 
gaws of  discourse,  in  tricking  out  the  real  excellence 
with  tinsel.  Such  artists  frequently  resemble  those 
who  would  place  a  silken  cord  for  the  conducting  of 
the  electric  current,  or  hang  robes  over  the  Venus 
de  Medici  to  develop  the  grace  of  the  proportions. 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  assert  that  this  is  the  case 
with  Henry  Melvill,  but  it  is  the  case  with  all  his 
imitators,  and  we,  assuredly,  sometimes  traced  some- 
thing of  it  in  himself.  Possessing,  perhaps,  no  wit, 
nor  much  destructiveness,  although  largely  gifted 
with  combativeness,  his  sentences  do  not  often 
assume  the  antithetical  form  ;  but  no  one  ever 
attended  his  ministry  without  noticing  his  large  pro- 
pensity to  the  paradoxical ;  and  latent  paradox  lay 
beneath  many  of  his  discourses  :  this  often  imparted 
a  tone  of  high  interest — or,  rather  say,  wonder — to 
the  preacher's  outpourings  ;  indeed  the  paradox,  or 
the  antithesis,  is  the  usual  resort  of  the  more  artificial 
style  of  oratory  ;  and  those,  who  are  fond  of  noticing 
how  startlingly  often  race  represents  itself,  will  not 
be  surprised  at  the  analogy  frequently  drawn  between 
Dr.    Chalmers,    from    Scotland,    and    Melvill,    from 


444  HENRY  MELVILL. 

Cornwall.  Both  represent  the  Celtic  blood,  and  in 
both  we  trace  the  Celtic  style  of  oratory,  tinged,  of 
course,  as  it  could  not  fail  to  be,  with  the  warmer 
and  more  simple  gloss  of  Saxon  feeling.  Melvill's 
was  a  style  that  struck  us  as  peculiarly  and  emi- 
nently French,  it  was  so  perpetually  interjectional,  so 
anxious  to  produce  effect,  so  determined  to  take 
you  by  surprise,  so  showy,  and,  may  we  not  say, 
often  so  meretricious,  so  dazzling  by  the  glare  of 
words,  in  every  way  so  ambitious,  at  the  same 
time  so  circumambulatory.  All  these  points  remind 
you  of  the  disciple  of  Bossuet ;  and,  like  that 
famous  man,  he  too,  in  an  inferior  degree,  may  be 
styled  philosopher,  orator,  and  poet  ;  we  will  not 
say  that  he  possessed  either  the  regal  grandeur,  the 
splendid  variegation  of  discourse,  or  the  delicacy  of 
tender  sentiment  and  enunciation,  possessed  by  the 
eminent  French  bishop  ;  but  he  did  yet  possess 
something  of  all  these.  Like  Bossuet  he  was  fitted 
for  the  pomp  of  great  occasions  ;  he  performed  his 
part  well  before  illustrious  personages.  We  could 
conceive  that,  with  a  French  audience,  he  too  could 
have  pronounced,  as,  over  the  remains  of  the  beloved 
princess,  the  French  preacher  pronounced,  "  O  nuit 
desastreuse !  Est  Madame  se  meurt  ^  Madame  est 
morte  !  "  while  a  whole  court  should  dissolve  in  tears 
around  him.  We  have  heard  some  of  these  fine 
touches  in  our  English  Bossuet — for,  to  our  thought, 
no  preacher  of  our  time  so  deserves  that  designa- 
tion as  Melvill.  Especially  do  we  remember  one 
very  impressive  sermon  preached  before  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  in  the  chapel  near  the  ruins  of  the 
Tower    of   London,    on    the    occasion    of    the   fire. 


HIS  CHOICE  OF  TEXTS.  445 

Standing  where  all  the  havoc  and  fury  of  the  flames 
and  the  smouldering  ashes  could  be  seen  ;  in  a 
building  so  consecrated  by  recollections  the  most 
hoary  and  ancestral  ;  the  invulnerable  fortress  of 
stone,  the  preacher  read  forth  his  text : — "  Seeing, 
then,  that  all  these  things  shall  be  dissolved,  what 
manner  of  persons  ought  ye  to  be  ?  "  It  was  felt 
that  there  was  a  terrible  and  most  appealing  pro- 
priety between  the  scenery,  the  circumstances,  and 
the  words.  And  those  for  the  sermon  on  the 
destruction  of  the  Royal  Exchange  were  equally 
appropriate,  though  we  did  not  hear  that  discourse  : — 
"  Alas !  alas !  that  great  city,  that  was  clothed  in 
fine  linen,  and  purple,  and  scarlet,  and  decked  with 
gold,  and  precious  stones,  and  pearls  !  For  in  one 
hour  so  great  riches  is  come  to  nought.  And  every 
shipmaster,  and  all  the  company  in  ships,  and 
sailors,  and  as  many  as  trade  by  sea,  stood  afar  off, 
and  cried  when  they  saw  the  smoke  of  her  burning." 
The  genius  of  the  preacher  is  frequently  as  visible  in 
the  selection  of  a  text  as  in  the  whole  structure  of  a 
discourse. 

From  all  that  has  been  said  it  will  be  believed 
that  the  style  of  Mr.  Melvill  was  truly  forensic  :  the 
logical  formulary  was  preserved,  although  it  was  not 
often  seen  ;  the  drapery  was  too  thick  for  that  :  but 
in  the  perusal  of  the  discourse  we  find  how  com- 
pletely the  preacher  himself  is  bound  to  the  dialectic 
form.  This  we  say  is  not  seen,  for  the  mode  is 
merely  forensic  ;  while  the  argument  lasts  we  feel 
that  it  is  special  pleading  ;  nor  indeed  do  we  think 
that  many  persons  would  flock  to  hear  Mr.  Melvill 
from  his  power,  or  precision   in  analyzing  causes,  or 


446  HENRY  MELVILL. 

disposing  of  arguments  ;  his  reasoning  has  ever 
struck  us  as  wanting  in  manliness  and  honesty.  We 
cannot  always  disprove  his  logic,  but  we  seldom  feel 
it.  We  understand  the  meaning  of  that  celebrated 
French  criticism  on  Bossuet,  that  "he  proved  religion, 
but  Fenelon  makes  us  love  it."  We  do  not  know 
that  we  were  ever  the  better  for  Mr.  Melvill's  ratioci- 
nations, and  we  fancied  that  he  never  appeared  very 
desirous  to  linger  upon  the  progress  of  argumentations 
himself — no  !  but  when  he  breaks  the  moorings,  and 
launches  forth  on  the  wide  fields  of  reverie  and 
rhapsody,  who  then  is  untouched,  who  then  is  un- 
impressed ?  Sometimes  the  whole  sermon  is  thus  a 
sublime  effusion,  in  which  all  nature  and  all  intelli- 
gence are  bowed  to  the  preacher's  bidding  :  you  are 
dazzled,  blinded,  by  the  coruscations  of  genius.  The 
voice  of  the  preacher,  like  a  trumpet,  bade  a  bound- 
less theatre  of  wonders  and  of  splendours  open  itself 
to  you  ;  he  pressed  his  finger  upon  the  charmed 
lock  of  fancy,  and  troops  of  wonderfully  suggestive 
words  obeyed  his  bidding  ;  here  he  was  at  home  ; 
he  revelled  like  a  necromancer,  amidst  a  glittering 
galaxy  of  many-coloured  images,  all  phantasmal, 
all  producing  upon  you  an  impression  like  the  reflec- 
tions of  stained  glass  upon  the  pavement  of  a 
cathedral.  We  feel  that  this  is  not  the  way  Nature 
would  paint,  yet  we  cannot  witl  hold  our  delight  ; 
the  colours  are  so  deep-toned,  so  rich,  so  radiant  ; 
as  we  said,  there  is  so  deep  a  pomp  of  hue,  crimson 
dyes,  deep  royal  purple  :  we  are  suffused  with  such 
radiances  as  these  ;  but  what  we  note  is,  that  our 
preacher  puts  as  deep  a  purple,  as  gorgeous,  and  as 
glowing,  and  unconcealed,  into  a  beetle's  shard  as 


HIS  STYLE  AND  INFLUENCE.  447 

into  a  monarch's  robe  ;  and  tints  the  wing  of  the 
little  bird  with  a  sapphire  as  bright  as  that  which 
colours  the  wing  of  an  archangel. 

Still,  Mr.  Melvill  had  a  mind  balanced  by  the 
sure  instincts  of  an  internal  sense  or  genius.  Robert 
Montgomery  may  have  been  described  as  a  mere 
intellectual  dandy  ;  yet  the  faults  of  our  favourite's 
style  approached,  in  some  measure,  the  sins  of  the 
poetaster, — a  disposition  to  look  at  things  through 
the  microscope,  and  to  give  that  appearance  as  the 
natural  one :  but  this  fault,  it  would  seem,  may  find 
its  balance  when  objects  of  more  magnificent  moment 
are  looked  upon.  Shall  we  seem  to  be  like  the 
orator  we  describe,  attempting  only  ambitious  things, 
when  we  say  that,  on  some  occasions, 

"  'Twas  e'en  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings  "  ? 

Seraphic  gleamings  darted  over  the  temple,  scorning 
the  dull  earth — the  pinions  seemed  glistening  far 
off,  amidst  distant  ranks  and  troops  of  stars  ;  we 
could,  for  the  time,  imagine  them  doing  homage  to 
a  Superior  Intelligence  as  he  passed  along.  Over 
imaginative  minds  Mr.  Melvill's  sermons  had  the 
same  wild  and  extraordinary  influence  as  that 
wielded  by  Martin's  pictures  ;  the  tendency,  while 
he  rushes  rapidly  by  you,  is  to  build  any  vast  and 
awful  forms  of  grotesque  magnificence ;  to  stretch 
out  the  eye  to  far-flashing  constellations  and  zodiacs 
distant  in  space ;  to  watch  the  mystic  out-raying 
of  strange  lightnings  round  colossal  thrones  and 
Titan  monarchies.  This,  it  may  seem,  is  no  very 
desirable  kind  of  preaching  for  an  inflammable 
youth;    and    Mr.    Melvill    himself  was   wonderfully 


448  HENRY  MELVILL.  -> 

tamed  in  his  later  years  in  the  brilliancy  of  his 
language  ;  but  such  as  it  was,  in  our  young  days, 
we  describe  it  now ;  and  then,  indeed,  all  Nature 
poured  around  him  her  tributary  streams  of  imagery. 
The  head,  so  strangely  nodding  over  every  peculiarly 
inflected  sentence,  the  rounded  period  so  rapidly 
turned  by  the  voice,  the  hand  never  raised,  but 
very  gently  lifted  from  the  pulpit  cushion  ;  anon, 
the  head  thrown  back,  and  then  a  very  kind,  bright 
student's  eye  darting  proudly  round  the  gallery,  as 
an  eagle  might  survey  a  champaign,  or  an  angel  a 
world ;  and  then,  then,  what  a  flood  of  splendour  came 
streaming  through  our  astonished  senses  !  On  such 
occasions  it  was  as  if  some  kind  spirit  winged  his 
way  to  point  out  to  us  the  panorama  of  creation. 
It  was  in  those  days  we  made  our  Festus  journey, 
but  not  on  to  Ruin  and  Death  ;  but  he  was  our  con- 
ductor over  the  continents  ;  sometimes,  within  the 
earth,  when  horrid  forms  glared  terribly  upon  us 
from  the  granite  and  the  marble  ;  sometimes  on  the 
ocean,  fired  and  bronzed  with  the  kindlings  of  glory 
and  beauty  ;  sometimes  upon  the  earth,  till  every 
insect  and  every  glittering  micaceous  speck  became 
a  radiant  letter  to  our  eye  ;  and  sometimes  through 
grim  mountain-passes,  and  fearful  thunder-clouds, 
and  clear  white  shafts  of  lightning,  making  blue  to 
us  the  faces  of  the  sheeted  dead.  It  is  no  wonder' 
that  our  imagination  has  played  tricks  with  us 
ever  since,  when  this  was  a  portion  of  its  education. 
For  instance, — although  we  scarcely  know  how 
to  cite  instances  from  so  many  fresh  within  our 
recollection — there  was  that  extraordinary  blaze  of 
eloquent  diction  on  "  God   inhabiting  the  praises  of 


THE   OLD   CATHEDRAL.  449 

Israel."  God  dwelling  as  in  a  cathedral  built  of 
praises !  It  was  a  subject  very  congenial  to  the 
orator  ;  it  was  throughout  a  glowing  poem,  starting 
from  a  rich  description  of  a  vast  old  minster,  with 
its  wonderful  combinations  of  wood  and  stone,  looked 
at  as  conceptions  of  the  Divine,  written  thus,  as 
the  orator  writes  his  conceptions,  in  words,  and  the 
poet  his  in  verse, — the  preacher  walked  amidst  the 
forest  of  pillars,  listening  to  the  voice  of  God,  in  rich 
symphonies  sounding  there,  even  as  of  old  among 
the  trees  of  the  garden.  Well  do  we  remember  the 
pictured  splendours  of  the  old  cathedral,  opened  like 
the  rich  volume  of  an  old  divine,  with  its  long- 
drawn  aisles,  and  dim  recesses,  its  mellowed  light, 
and  deepened  shadows,  its  bold  and  mighty  arches  ; 
it  was  not  possible  to  listen  without  noting  how  the 
stone,  the  oak,  the  cedar  work,  and  the  curtains, 
rose  to  the  glorious  proportions  of  the  magnificent 
building.  And  then  the  figure  of  speech  was  used 
to  convey  the  lofty  idea  that  God  dwelt  in  a  temple 
built  of  the  praises  of  His  creatures — as  in  vast  and 
hoar  cathedral  sanctuaries.  Behold  the  structures ! 
— the  noble  and  brilliant  fabrics  reared  from  the  an- 
thems of  unfallen  intelligences  ! — dim  recesses,  where 
mention  was  made  of  the  mysteries  of  the  Divine 
Nature ! — a  rich  roof,  wrought  out  of  the  melodies 
which  hymn  the  goodness  of  the  Universal  Parent ! 
— a  building  wrought  from  the  Rock  of  Ages  ! — its 
pillars,  song  on  song — its  aisles,  prolonged  choruses  ; 
domes,  and  pinnacles,  and  spires  bearing  aloft  the 
truth  that  God  became  man,  that  man  might  rise 
to  fellowship  with  God.  Then  rang  over  the  en- 
tranced assembly  the  preacher's  exclamation — "Ah 

29 


450  HENRY  MEL  VILL. 


this  is  the  cathedral  ! — a  cathedral  beheld  by  Christ, 
rising,  as  He  hung  on  His  cross !  "  And,  even 
while  the  speaker  rapidly  poured  along  a  sea 
of  words  of  mingled  piety  and  poetry,  describing 
the  long  succession  of  ages  contributing  to  the 
wonderful  working,  the  spacious  chapel  seemed  far 
too  little  for  him  and  for  us  ;  a  building  rose  before 
the  eye,  of  infinite  proportions,  bathed  in  the  soft 
sempiternal  lustres  of  the  Godhead — glorious  with 
the  hues  of  infinite  love  and  infinite  light,  and 
swelling  aloft  into  the  unseen   shrine  of  Deity. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  inflation  frequently  per- 
ceptible in  the  manner  of  the  preacher,  and  in 
justice  to  our  own  criticism  we  must  still  speak  of 
it.  We  might  cite,  from  the  volumes  of  sermons 
lying  before  us,  innumerable  illustrations,  but  we 
content  ourselves  with  one,  although  that  one  has 
been  before  remarked  upon  by  other  reviewers.  It 
appears  in  one  of  his  most  brilliant  discourses — one 
from  which  we  intend  selecting  a  paragraph  of  a 
very  different  character  ;  but  sacred  as  is  the  theme, 
— the  resurrection  of  Christ — and  great  as  is  our 
respect  for  the  preacher,  we  can  only  regard  it  as 
a  piece  of  the  most  truly  magnificent  bathos,  and 
trumpet-toned  nonsense,  it  has  ever  been  our  lot 
to  read  or  hear.  If  any  apology  be  needed  for 
presenting  it  in  this  volume,  it  is,  that  it  appears  now 
in  the  edition  of  Mr,  Melvill's  most  recent  sermons. 
Speaking  of  Jesus,  he  says  : — ■ 

"  He  went  down  to  the  grave  in  the  weakness  of 
Humanity,  but  at  the  same  time  in  the  might  of  Deity,  and 
designing  to  pour  forth  a  torrent  of  lustre  on  the  life,  the 


MA  GNIFICENT  BA  THOS.  45 1 

everlasting  life  of  man. — Oh  !  He  did  not  bid  the  firmament 
cleave  asunder,  and  the  constellations  of  eternity  shine  out 
in  their  majesties,  and  dazzle  and  blind  an  overawed 
creation.  He  rose  up  a  moral  giant  from  His  grave  clothes, 
and,  proving  death  vanquished  in  his  own  stronghold,  left  the 
vacant  sepulchre  as  a  centre  of  light  to  the  dwellers  on  the 
planet.  He  took  not  the  suns  and  systems  which  crowd 
immensity,  in  order  to  form  one  brilliant  cataract,  which, 
rushing  down  in  its  glorie's,  might  sweep  away  darkness 
from  the  benighted  race  of  the  Apostate ;  but  He  came  forth 
from  the  tomb  masterful  and  victorious,  and  the  place 
where  He  had  lain  became  the  focus  of  the  rays  of  the  long 
hiddeu  truth  ;  and  the  fragments  of  His  grave-stone  were  the 
stars  from  whence  flashed  the  immortality  of  man." 

To  our  poor  mind  the  taste  of  this  passage  is 
deplorable,  and  the  tone,  if  we  may  say  so,  shockingly 
irreverent  from  its  meaninglessness. 

But  the  reader  will  readily  enough  gather  that 
this  was  no  ordinary  preaching,  and  that  the  sermons 
of  ]\Ir.  Melvill  abounded  frequently  with  phrases 
and  discussions  of  extraordinary  beauty,  as  well  as 
loftiness  ;  for  his  command  over  the  tender  feelings 
of  his  audience  was  quite  equal  to  his  power  of 
descending  into  the  more  sublime  and  darkly 
shadowed  movings  of  the  spirit.  How  often  did  his 
auditors  hold  back  their  sobbings,  and  stifle  the 
tears,  that  the  spell  of  their  master's  power  might 
not  be  broken  !  The  same  sermon  would  frequently 
abound  with  both  of  these  evidences  of  mastery  over 
the  spirit.  We  could  scarce  resist  the  influence  to 
shout  out  loudly  in  the  church  ;  if  he  questioned 
us, —  if  he  interrogated  us, — we  unist  do  so  ;  for  his 
was  most  eminently  a  style  of  speech  that  not  only 


452  HENRY  MELVILL. 

ruffled  within  you  all  your  deeper  feelings,  but  the 
manner  of  the  preacher  prevented  your  following 
them  there.  You  followed  Jmn  through  all  the 
moods  of  language  or  of  mind  ;  reasoning  upon  the 
style  of  this  mode  of  speech  you  felt  how  marvellous 
its  power  might  have  been,  if  it  had  been  more 
bound  by  some  obvious  aim  ;  but  the  impression 
was  like  that  of  a  very  pleasant  song, — you  were 
dazzled  and  bewildered  by  the  radiance  of  speech 
and  imagery.  You  wondered  at  the  oracle,  but,  on 
the  whole,  its  utterances  were  dark  sayings. 

Some  of  our  readers  will  say,  "  Show  to  us  some 
of  the  sentences  of  the  orator  ;  "  and  we,  therefore, 
subjoin  two  or  three  extracts,  and  the  first  shall 
be  from  the  sermon,  to  which  reference  has  already 
been  made,  in  the  Tower  Chapel,  immediately  after 
the  fire. 

"  If  we  come  down  upon  any  one  amongst  yourselves, 
who  may  be  actually  engrossed  with  worldly  objects,  and 
preach  to  him  as  it  wf^re  from  the  shroud  and  coffin,  we 
undoubtedly  take  the  course  which  after  all  is  most  effica- 
cious. It  is  not  that  we  depreciate  the  excellence  of  that 
which  he  prizes, — for  this  might  rouse  his  indignation,  and 
lead  him  to  account  us  ignorant  of  that  against  which  we 
declaimed ;  but  we  give  him  the  whole  benefit  of  the  suppo- 
sition that  there  is  real  worth  in  the  objects  of  his  pursuit, — at 
least  we  will  not  inflame  all  his  prejudices  by  entering  into 
debate  with  him  on  their  being  unsatisfying;  we  ply  him 
instantly  with  the  fact  that  '  these  things  shall  be  dissolved,' 
that,  therefore,  they  are  only  temporal — temporal  in  respect 
to  him,  whatever  they  may  be  in  themselves.  And,  though 
he  might  listen  with  a  very  languid  attention,  if  we  attempted 
to  prove  their  dissolution  by  referring  to  some  great  change 
which  is  to  pass  over  the  universe,  ought  he  not  to  hearken 


LESSONS  OF  A    GRA  VEYARD.  453 

with  the  most  excited  and  interested  feelings  when  we  press 
him  with  the  circumstance  oi his  own  dissolution?  VVe  will 
not  argue  with  the  sensualist  in  the  midst  of  the  fascinating 
objects  wherein  he  delights;  we  will  not  argue  with  the 
miser  whilst  the  gold  glitters  and  sparkles  before  him ; 
we  will  not  argue  with  the  philosopher  as  the  broad 
arch  of  the  heavens  fixes  his  study ;  but  we  will  argue  with 
them  amidst  the  graves  of  a  churchyard,  and  our  reasoning 
shall  be  its  inhabitants  of  all  ages  and  all  ranks.  Come 
with  us  into  the  sacred  enclosure,  and  there  learn  feelingly 
the  emphasis  of  our  text.  This  tomb — it  is  that  of  an  opulent 
merchant ;  he  made  his  thousands — and  then  could  carry 
nothing  away  with  him  of  all  he  had  accumulated.  Yonder 
proud  marble — it  marks  the  resting-place  of  one  who  at- 
tained high  rank  ;  he  wore  stars  and  ribbons — and  then  left 
them  for  a  winding-sheet.  Beneath  your  feet  is  the  dust  of 
a  voluptuary ;  he  thought  nothing  worth  living  for  but 
pleasure,  he  took  his  fill — and  was  then  stripped  of  every 
power  of  enjoyment.  This  stone  covers  a  man  of  science; 
he  delighted  in  searching  after  knowledge,  the  planets  were 
his  companions,  the  mysteries  of  nature  were  his  pastime ; 
and,  having  stored  his  mind  with  the  varied  erudition — he 
was  hurried  into  a  world  of  which  he  had  gained  no  in- 
telligence. Tread  lightly  on  that  turf, — something  like 
homage  is  due  even  to  the  dust  of  what  once  was  lovely 
and  virtuous  ;  it  is  the  idol  of  parents,  over  whom  that  grass 
grows,  and  she  was  all  that  parents'  hearts  could  wish — a 
vision  of  the  morning,  radiant  and  formed  to  shed  blessings 
on  all  around  ;  the  parents  garnered  up  their  souls  in  her, 
she  was  their  all,  their  idol ;  they  never  seemed  to  think 
that  she  could  die, — but  the  spoiler  came,  and,  in  a  moment, 
they  were  childless.  We  need  not  continue  our  progress 
through  the  melancholy  spot ;  but  will  any  of  you  go  away 
from  the  churchyard,  uniin|)ressed  with  the  feeling  that  all 
created  good  can  be  enjoyed  but  for  a  short  time,  and, 
therefore,  that  it  is  not  the  good  which  should  engage  the 


454  HENRY  MELVILL. 


affections  of  creatures  appointed  for  immortality  ?  Knowing, 
as  ye  must  know,  that  what  has  happened  to  those  wliose 
epitaphs  ye  have  been  reading,  must  ere  long  happen  to 
yourselves,  will  ye  turn  .to  the  pursuit  of  money,  or  of 
pleasure,  or  of  science,  or  of  honour,  just  as  though  ye  had 
no  demonstration  that  the  world  passeth  away,  and  the 
fashion  thereof?  Will  ye  not  rather,  though  ye  may  not 
have  been  affected  as  the  vision  was  before  you,  of  the 
pillars  of  the  universe  tottering,  and  one  terrific  flame  wrap- 
ping up  the  heavens  and  the  earth, — will  ye  not  rather  with- 
draw from  the  sanctuary  of  the  dead,  not  merely  confessing 
that  'all  these  things  shall  be  dissolved,'  but  drawing 
from  it  in  your  very  hearts  the  inference,  *  What  manner  of 
persons  ought  we  to  be  in  all  holy  conversation  and  godli- 
ness ?  * " 

Another  extract  lies  before  us,  illustrating  our 
preacher's  power  of  apostrophe,  selected  from  his 
famous  sermon  on  the  tercentenary  of  the  translation 
of  the  English  Bible  : — 

"By  the  memory  of  martyrs,  by  the  ashes  of  confessors, 
by  the  dust  of  a  thousand  of  saints,  we  conjure  you  to  be 
staunch  in  support  of  your  religion  !  The  spirits  of  departed 
worthies  who  have  witnessed  a  good  confession,  and  sealed 
it  with  their  blood, — bend  "down,  we  may  think,  from  their 
lofty  dwelling,  and  mark  our  earnestness  in  defending  the 
(aith  for  which  they  died  !  Oh,  if  they  could  hear  our  voice, 
should  it  not  tell  them  that  there  are  yet  many  in  the  land 
emulous  of  their  zeal,  and  eager  to  tread  in  their  steps  ; 
ready,  if  there  come  a  season  big  with  calamity,  to  gird  them- 
selves for  the  defence  of  Protestantism  in  its  last  asylum,  and 
o  behold  in  the  strength  of  the  living  God  a  cause  which  they 
sustained  by  their  arguments,  and  cemented  by  iheir  blood  ! 
Yes,  illustrious  martyrs,  ye  died  not  in  vain  !  Mighty  troop  ! 
there  was  lit  up,  at  your  massacre,  a  fire  in  these  realms 


POWER   OF  APOSTROPHE.  455 


which  is  yet  unextinguished,  and  from  father  to  son  has  the 
sacred  flame  been  transmitted  ;  and  though  in  the  days  of  our 
security  this  flame  may  have  burnt  with  a  dimmed  lustre, 
yet  let  the  watchman  sound  the  alarm,  and  many  a  moun- 
tain-top shall  be  red  with  the  beacon's  blaze,  and  the  noble 
vault  of  your  resting-place  grow  illumined  with  the  flash  ! 
Repose  ye  in  your  deep  slumbers,  spirits  of  the  martyred 
dead !  we  know  something  of  the  worth  of  a  pure  Gospel, 
and  a  free  Bible !    We  will  bind  ourselves,  by  the  name  of 
Him  Who  liveth  and  abideth  for  ever,  to  preserve  unimpaired 
the  privileges  bequeathed  us,  and  to  impart  them  in  their 
beauty  and  fulness  to  the  whole  mass  of  our  population ! 
Protestantism  has  long  enjoyed  a  season  of  tranquillity,  and 
its  enemies  may  have  mistaken  its  quietness  for  deadness. 
'  As  well,'  to  borrow  the  simile  of  an  illustrious  departed 
statesman,  on  another  occasion,  'might  they  have  thought  the 
ship  finally  dismantled  when  they  had  seen  her  laid  up  in 
ordinary,  sleeping  on  her  shadow  with  no  signs  of  power. 
There  needs  nothing  but  the  news   of  the   invader,    and 
presently  would  this  mighty  mass,  resting  to  all  appearance 
uselessly  on  the  waters,  ruffle  her  swelling   plumage,    put 
forth  all  her  beauty  and  her  bravery,  awaken  her  dormant 
thunder,  and  wait  the  waves  as  though  instinct  with  life.' 
Thus  Protestantism  may  have  seemed  to  be  slumbering,  but 
she  has  in  herself  the  elements  of  might.     Let  only  the 
tidings  be  heard  that  the  Philistines  are  upon  her,  and  again 
and  suddenly,  shall  she  start  at  the  alarm  and  spring  into 
energy  ;  and  it  shall  be  proved  that  she  needed  nothing  but 
a  season  of  peril  to  make  her  spread  her  wings  and  bear 
down  upon  her  foes." 

This  is  ambitious,  but  weak  indeed  in  comparison 
with  what  Hall  (of  whom  it  is  an  imitation),  or 
Chalmers,  or  Irving  would  have  said  on  a  like 
occasion. 


456  HENR  Y  MEL  VILL. 

And  yet  one  more  thrilling  extract  from  a  sermon 
on  the  closing  year  1837,  the  evening  of  December 
31st: — 

"Which  of  you  would  be  inattentive  to  our  exhorta- 
tion— which  of  you  would  go  away  and  be  indifferent  to 
religion — if  we  stood  now  in  this  pulpit  with  a  revelation 
from  Him  who  hath  the  keys  of  death,  commissioned  to 
make  known  to  every  individual  in  this  assembly  the  exact 
time  he  had  to  live ;  but  at  the  same  time,  to  show  all,  that 
their  graves  would  be  dug  ere  the  earth  should  have  walked 
another  circuit  round  the  sun?  I  open  the  dark  book  of 
fate  !  Every  one  fears  to  look,  dreading  that  he  shall  see  his 
own  name.  But  we  force  you  to  see — we  force  you  to 
hear — we  pronounce  your  name,  and  yours,  and  yours  ! 
None  of  you  shall  outlive  1838!  Ah,  believe  this,  and  we 
dare  to  say  none  of  you  shall  go  down  to  hell.  Is  it 
because  we  cannot  compute  the  moment — because  you  can 
only  rebel  for  a  i<i'^  days,  more  or  less,  that  you  venture  to 
live  as  though  there  were  no  hereafter,  no  death,  or  no 
judgment  ?  Indeed  it  is.  What  you  would  not  dare  do,  if 
you  knew  that  you  must  die  in  a  year,  you  do  without 
compunction  because  you  only  know  that  you  may  die 
to-})iorrow. 

"  But,  at  least,  it  is  evident  that  the  great  thing  wanted  to 
make  men  provide  for  eternity,  is  what  we  have  called  the 
practical  persuasion  that  they  have  but  a  short  time  to  live. 
They  will  not  apply  their  hearts  unto  wisdom  until  they  are 
brought  to  the  numbering  of  their  days.  And  how  are  you 
to  be  brought,  my  brethren  ?  The  most  surprising  thing  in 
the  text  is,  that  it  should  be  in  the  form  of  a  prayer.  It  is 
necessary  that  God  should  interfere  to  make  men  number 
their  days.  We  call  this  surprising.  What !  is  there  not 
enough  to  make  us  feel  our  frailty  without  an  actual  super- 
natural impression?  What!  are  there  not  lessons  enough  of 
that  frailty  without  any  new  teaching  from  above  ?     Go  into 


EVERY  MAN  DIES.  457 


our  churchyards — all  ages  speak  to  all  ranks.  Can  we  need 
more  to  prove  to  us  the  uncertainty  of  life?  Go  into 
mourning  families— and  where  are  they  not  to  be  found? — 
in  this  it  is  the  old,  in  that  the  young,  whom  death  has 
removed— and  is  there  not  eloquence  in  tears  to  persuade 
us  that  we  are  mortal?  Can  it  be  that  in  treading  every 
day  on  the  dust  of  our  fathers,  and  meeting  every  day  with 
the  funerals  of  our  brethren,  we  shall  not  yet  be  practically 
taught  to  number  our  days,  unless  God  print  the  truth  on 
our  hearts  through  some  special  operation  of  His  Holy 
Spirit?  It  is  not  thus  in  other  things.  In  other  things  the 
frequency  of  the  occurrence  makes  us  expect  it.  The 
husbanduian  does  not  pray  to  be  made  to  believe  that  the 
seed  must  be  buried  and  die  before  it  will  germinate.  This 
has  been  the  course  of  the  grain  of  every  one  else,  and, 
where  there  is  so  much  experience,  what  room  is  there  for 
prayer?  The  mariner  does  not  pray  to  be  taught  that  the 
needle  of  his  compass  points  towards  the  north.  The 
needle  of  every  compass  has  so  pointed  since  the  secret  was 
discovered,  and  he  has  not  to  ask  when  he  is  already  so 
sure.  The  benighted  man  does  not  pray  to  be  made  to  feel 
that  the  sun  will  rise  in  a  few  hours.  Morning  has  suc- 
ceeded to  night  since  the  world  was  made,  and  why  should 
he  ask  what  he  knows  too  well  to  doubt?  But  in  none  of 
these  things  is  there  greater  room  for  assurance  than  we 
have  each  one  for  himself,  in  regard  to  its  being  appointed  to 
him  once  to  die.  Nevertheless,  we  must  pray  to  be  made  to 
know — to  be  made  to  feel — that  we  are  to  die,  in  the  face 
of  an  experience  which  is  certainly  not  less  than  that  of 
the  parties  to  whom  we  have  rtferred.  There  is  a  petition 
that  we  may  believe,  believe  as  they  do:  for  they  act  on 
their  belief  in  the  fact  which  this  experience  incontestably 
attests.  And  we  may  say  of  this,  that  it  is  amongst  the 
strangest  of  the  strange  things  that  may  be  affirmed  of 
human  nature,  that  whilst,  in  regard  to  inferior  concerns,  we 
can  carefully  avail  ourselves  of  experience,  taking  care  to 


458  HENRY  MELVILL. 

register  its  decisions  and  to  deduce  from  them  rules  for  our 
guidance — in  the  mightiest  concern  of  all  v.'e  can  act  as 
though  experience  had  furnished  no  evidence,  and  we  were 
left  without  matter  from  which  to  draw  inferences.  And, 
nevertheless,  in  regard  to  nothing  else  is  experience  so  uniform. 
The  grain  does  not  always  germinate — but  every  min  dies. 
The  needle  does  not  always  point  due  north — but  every 
man  dies.  The  sun  does  not  cross  the  horizon  in  every 
place  in  twenty-four  hours — but  every  tnan  dies.  Yet  we 
must  pray — pray  as  for  the  revelation  of  a  mystery  hidden 
from  our  gaze — we  must  pray  to  be  made  to  know — to  be 
made  to  believe— that  every  tnan  dies!  For  I  call  it  not  belief, 
and  our  text  calls  it  not  belief,  in  the  shortness  of  life  and 
the  certainty  of  death,  which  allows  men  to  live  without 
thought  of  eternity,  without  anxiety  as  to  the  soul,  or  with- 
out an  effort  to  secure  to  themselves  salvation.  I  call  it  not 
belief — no,  no,  anything  rather  than  belief.  Men  are  rational 
beings,  beings  of  forethought,  disposed  to  make  provision 
for  what  they  feel  to  be  inevitable  :  and  if  there  were  not  a 
practical  infidelity  as  to  their  own  mortality,  they  could  not 
be  practically  reckless  as  to  their  own  safety. 

"  And  wherefore  does  the  very  circumstance  of  the  text, 
being  in  the  form  of  a  prayer,  confirm  us  in  the  feeling  that 
to  discourse  to  you  on  your  frailty,  is  to  discourse  to  you  on 
what  is  least  likely  to  fix  your  attention  ?  All  the  gloomi- 
ness, of  which  we  spoke  to  you  in  the  beginning  of  the 
sermon,  returns  upon  us.  We  feel  as  though  we  must  have 
been  speaking  in  vain,  as  though  it  were  lost  time  which 
had  been  given  to  reflections  on  the  close  of  another 
year.  Are  we  thus  numbering  our  days  ?  Yes,  we  do  all 
thus  number  our  days.  But  on  what  scale,  or  upon  what 
arithmetic  ?  Let  us  all  be  honest,  and  perhaps  we  shall  all 
confess  that  we  reckon  on  living,  at  least,  another  year. 
We  expect,  we  calculate  on  seeing  the  close  of  the  twelve- 
month which  we  are  just  about  beginning.  Yet  I  dare 
pronounce  it  certain  that  we  all  shall  not.     So  then  there  is 


HE  miTATES  ROBERT  HALL.  459 


a  numbering  of  our  days ;  but,  alas !  Ave  so  number  them 
that  we  apply  the  heart  to  folly.  The  young  man  numbers 
his  days ;  he  computes  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
sand  yet  left  in  his  hour-glass,  and  it  is  not  necessary  to 
begin  to  prepare  for  eternity.  Yes,  this  is  numbering  our 
days  that  we  may  apply  our  hearts  unto  folly.  We  need  no 
teaching  for  this  ;  we  do  this  naturally,  not  even  contem- 
plating it  probable,  but  at  once  reckoning  on  the  certainty. 
But  as  for  numbering  our  days  that  we  may  apply  our 
hearts  unto  wisdom,  for  this  there  must  be  teaching— super- 
natural, Divine  teaching.  The  coffin  will  not  teach  it ;  the 
open  grave  will  not  teach  it ;  pestilence  will  not  teach  it. 
Thou,  O  God,  and  Thou  alone,  canst  make  us  feel  our- 
selves mortal,  that  we  should  live  like  the  immortal !  What 
an  expression  is  that  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Corinthians  ! — did 
you  ever  ponder  it  ? — *  Quit  you  like  men  ' — '  Quit  you 
LIKE  MEN.'  '  Like  men,'  immortal  beings  that  perish  not  in 
death;  not  like  brutes,  where  there  is  no  soul  to  survive 
the  dissolution  appointed.  Then  only  are  we  acting  as  men 
when  we  act  for  eternity. 

"  But  we  forbear — we  have  said  that  exhortation  is  power- 
less, and  why  then  plead  ?  We  turn  to  prayer.  Now  as 
the  year  dies,  now  as  1837  is  just  giving  in  its  record  of  our 
conduct,  we  turn  to  pra)  er.  God  of  the  spirit  of  all  flesh, 
the  young  are  before  Thee,  the  old  are  before  Thee.  *  So 
teach  us  to  number  our  days  that  we  may  apply  our  hearts 
unto  wisdom  1 '  " 

We  quote  the  following  the  rather  that  we  heard 
it,  and  remember  well  its  powerful  influence  over 
the  breathless  audience.  It  is  on  the  doctrine  of 
the  Resurrection. 

"  One  after  another  is  withdrawn  from  the  church  below, 
and  Heaven   is  gathering  into   its   capacious  bosom*  the 

•  Evidently  an  imitation  of  Robert  Hall, 


460  HENRY  MELVILL. 

company  of  the  justified.  We  feel  our  loss,  when  those 
whose  experience  qualified  them  to  teach,  and  whose  life 
was  a  sermon  to  a  neighbourhood,  are  removed  to  the 
Church  above.  But  we  sorrow  not,  even  as  others,  which 
have  no  hope,  'as  we  mark  the  breaches  which  Death 
makes  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left.'  We  may,  indeed, 
think  that  'the  righteous  is  taken  away  from  the  evil  to 
come,'  and  that  we  ourselves  are  left  to  struggle  through 
approaching  days  of  fear  and  perplexity.  Be  it  so  !  We 
are  not  alone.  He  Who  is  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life 
leads  us  on  to  the  battle  and  the  grave. 

"  '  The  Resurrection  and  the  Life  !'  These  are  Thy 
magnificent  titles,  Captain  of  our  Salvation  !  and,  therefore, 
we  commit  to  Thee  body  and  soul,  for  Thou  hast  redeemed 
both,  and  Thou  wilt  advance  both  to  the  noblest  and  most 
splendid  of  portions.  Who  quails  and  shrinks,  scared  by 
the  despotism  of  Death?  Who  amongst  you  fears  the 
dashings  of  those  cold  black  waters  which  roll  between  us 
and  the  promised  land?  Men  and  brethren,  grasp  your 
privileges  !  Men  and  brethren,  Christ  Jesus  has  'abolished 
death.'  Will  you,  by  your  faithlessness,  throw  strength  to 
the  dethroned  and  the  destroyed?  Yes.  'The  Resurrection 
and  the  Life'  '  abolished  death.'  Ye  must  indeed  die,  and 
so  far  Death  remains  undestroyed.  But,  if  the  terrible  be 
destroyed,  when  it  can  no  longer  terrify  ;  and  if  the  injurious 
be  destroyed,  when  it  can  no  longer  injure ;  if  the  enemy 
be  abolished,  when  it  does  the  work  of  a  friend  ;  and  if  the 
tyrant  be  abolished,  when  performing  the  offices  of  a  servant ; 
if  the  repulsion  be  destroyed,  when  we  can  welcome 
it;  and  if  the  odious  be  destroyed,  when  we  can  embrace 
it ;  if  the  quicksand  be  abolished,  when  we  can  walk  on  it 
and  sink  not ;  if  the  fire  be  abolished,  when  we  can  pass 
through  it  and  be  scorched  not ;  if  the  poison  be  abolished, 
when  we  can  drink  it  and  be  hurt  not, — then  is  Death 
destroyed  !  then  is  Death  abolished  to  all  who  believe  on 
'the  Resurrection  and  the  Life';  and  the  noble  prophecy  is 


AN  EXEMPLAR   OF  THE  ''FINE   STYLE."     461 


fulfilled.  Bear  witness,  ye  groups  of  the  ransomed,  bend- 
ing down  from  your  high  citadel  of  triumph  !  Oh,  Death, 
I  will  be  thy  plagues  1  Oh,  Grave,  I  will  be  thy 
destruction  1 " 

We  are  certain  these  extracts  are  rather  below  the 
average  of  Mr.  Melvill's  sermons,  but  they  convey 
an  idea  of  his  usual  style  ;  they  are  less  ornate  than 
the  bulk  of  his  discourses,  for  over  the  greater  part 
there  hangs  the  most  profuse  foliation  of  the  Corin- 
thian style.  In  Henry  Melvill  we  have  the  very 
culmination  of  the  fine  style  of  preaching.  The 
points  of  analogy  are  many  between  his  sermons 
and  those  of  Dr.  M'All.  In  Melvill  we  have  a 
more  lofty  conceptive  power,  in  M'All  a  more  ample 
diffusiveness.  In  Melvill  we  notice  the  want  of 
riveting,  salient  points,  landmarks  of  discourse,  mile- 
stones, and  finger-posts,  as  reminders  and  memories 
upon  the  road  ;  but  this  was  even  much  more 
remarkably  the  case  with  Dr.  M'All  :  the  torrent  of 
words  swept  on,  language  rolled  before  you  like  a 
sea  of  glass,  for  his  style  was  much  more  perfect 
and  transparent  than  Melvill's  ;  but,  in  reading  both 
the  one  and  the  other  of  these  men,  we  find  our- 
selves oppressed  with  monotonous  magnificence  ; 
it  is  a  waving  tapestry,  where  argent  and  azure 
shine,  but  the  figures  are  dimly  visible,  if  visible  at 
all.  Melvill  does  sometimes  allow  an  image  to  rise 
before  you  in  t'ull  proportion  ;  you  have  impressed 
upon  you  a  legible  and  distinct  idea,  but  M'All 
never  ;  and  both  of  them  fail  to  present  their  sub- 
jects in  a  light  striking,  plain,  and  lucid. 

Upon    the    whole,    what    do    we    want    most    in 


462  HENRY  MELVILL. 

preaching  ?  Even  this,  that  a  subject  should  be 
placed,  not  in  an  atmosphere  of  sound,  but  an 
atmosphere  of  light.  The  gift  of  hearing  was 
conferred,  not,  we  take  it,  to  be  a  means  of  con- 
founding the  perceptions,  and  bamboozling  the 
understanding,  but  as  an  avenue  to  the  mind,  in 
order  that  it  may  see  ;  and  so  with  images,  since  the 
world  was  made,  and  men  began  to  speak  freely, 
and  things  acquired  a  spiritual  significance.  Sym- 
bolism— how  few  of  all  the  tropes  and  figures  used 
have  been  understood  or  used  to  any  purpose ! 
Time  was  when  every  figure  was  an  analogy,  and 
suggested  instantly  a  prompt  resemblance  to  the 
matter  in  hand  ;  but  now  they  are  more  freakish, 
and  their  forms  far  less  definite  and  obvious  than 
the  glasses  of  a  kaleidoscope.  Perspicuity  of  style 
demands  much  more  than  the  mere  grammatical 
perspicuity  of  a  sentence  ;  it  demands  that  the  whole 
array  of  the  thought  and  the  subject  should  be 
marshalled  before  the  hearer's  mind.  The  style  of 
these  fine  writers  is  like  the  setting  sun  beheld 
through  a  mountain  mist  ;  all  things  are  confused  ; 
everything  lies  shapeless  and  undefined  ;  yet  you 
feel  a  sense  of  splendour,  and  you  see  a  shadowing 
forth  of  glory  ;  you  see  enough  and  feel  enough  to 
lead  you  to  exclaim,  "  Oh  that  the  sun  were 
shining  clear  and  bright  to-day  !  " 

Reviewing  in  our  mind  many  of  those  discourses 
which  impressed  us  more  when  we  were  young,  it 
seems  to  us  that  we  cannot  acquit  our  preacher  of 
the  charge  of  casuistry — nay,  many,  not  to  say 
most,  of  his  sermons  look  like  the  efforts  of  a 
special  pleader  ;   there  is  too  much  agility,  too  much 


PULPIT  TIGHT-ROPE  DANCING.  463 

adroitness.  Many  of  his  most  lengthy  hortations 
have  the  appearance  of  tight-rope  dancing  ;  they  are 
too  clever.  We  start  at  the  strange  turn — we  had 
almost  said  the  perversion — of  some  thought.  What 
a  strange  text — "  The  Spirit  of  God  moved  upon  the 
face  of  the  waters  !  "  This  text  was  made  to  do 
service  for  a  discourse  on  baptismal  regeneration  ! 
"  And  He  commanded  that  something  should  be 
given  her  to  eat" — this  was  called  in  to  show  the 
necessity  of  religious  education,  after  baptism,  before 
confirmation.  "  Sentences  in  Scripture,"  says  Dr. 
Donne,  "  like  hairs  in  horse-tails,  concur  in  one  root 
of  beauty  and  strength  ;  but  being  plucked  out  one 
by  one,  serve  only  for  springes  and  snares."  We 
are  bound  to  say  that  Mr.  Melvill  has  used  many 
a  text  to  the  latter  purpose.  He  needed  often  to 
keep  in  mind  a  wise  saying  of  the  old  Lightfoot  : 
"  Inspired  writings  are  an  inestimable  treasure  to 
mankind  ;  for,  so  many  sentences,  so  many  truths. 
But  then  the  true  sense  of  them  must  be  known  ; 
otherwise,  so  many  sentences,  so  many  authorised 
falsehoods."  Mr.  Melvill  loved  a  paradox,  he  loved 
a  novelty,  he  loved  a  splendid  rhapsody  ;  his  style 
was  not  favourable  to  the  culture  of  much  exactitude 
of  thought  ;  his  words  were  too  affluent  to  admit  of 
an  equal  wealth  of  ideas  in  his  discourses.  But  our 
more  especial  quarrel  now  is  that  he  very  frequently 
started  from  his  text  altogether  in  his  resolution  to 
elucidate  a  subject.  "  Our  minister,"  said  an  old 
lady  once — not  of  Mr.  Melvill,  though, — "our  minister 
is  such  a  man  ;  if  his  text  had  the  small-pox,  he'd 
never  catch  it."  It  must  be  said  that  often  all 
that  our  preacher's  text  had  to  do  with  his  sermon 


464  HENRY  MELVILL. 

was,  to  round  the  varied  periods  of  his  divisions  and 
peroration.  "  I  shall  divide,"  said  old  Rowland  Hill, 
"  my  subject  into  three  parts  :  I  shall  first  go 
through  the  text,  next  go  round  about  the  text,  and 
lastly  go  away  from  it  altogether."  Mr.  Melvill 
very  frequently  went  away  from  the  text  altogether  ; 
it  is  the  fault  indeed  of  the  pulpit  method,  now  so 
common  among  us,  by  which  the  exposition  of 
Scripture  is  utterly  ignored,  and  an  hour  expended 
on  the  delivery  of  the  essay — a  pulpit-theme — an 
oration — with  a  text  for  a  motto. 

Well,  gentlemen  of  the  pulpit,  your  "Essay"  style 
of  discourse  is  very  popular  just  now,  but  nothing 
could  be  more  worthless.  In  Melvill  it  reached 
its  highest  climax  of  brilliancy  ;  but  is  it  not  com- 
paratively useless  ?  On  the  whole,  it  is  a  splendid 
detonating  powder  ;  it  will  produce  a  blaze  and  a 
noise,  but  it  kills  no  game.  Moreover,  your  essay- 
ists are  mostly  genuine  disciples  of  Luys  d'  Escobar; 
they  are  ever  hunting  out  the  singular  and  the 
fanciful  ;  they  start  questions  which  would  have 
remained  for  ever  settled.  This  fighting  extinct 
devils,  this  sparring  with  men  of  straw,  very  cleverly 
constructed  to  be  knocked  down,  why,  it  is  all  as 
wise  as  poor  Alexander  Henderson's  tragedy,  where- 
in, said  the  author,  were  "  the  most  convincing 
arguments  against  incest  and  self-murder."  Thii 
was  not  Christ's  method  of  preaching,  nor  Peter's  or 
the  day  of  Pentecost,  nor  Paul's  on  Mais  Hill  ;  nor 
was  this  the  method  of  Demosthenes,  nor  Socrates. 
No  ;  if  usefulness  be  the  aim,  better  by  far  the 
expository  power  of  our  Puritanic  fathers  than  the 
discursive  and  excursive   flights  of  modern   Essay- 


CRACKING  THEOLOGICAL   NUTS.  465 

ists.  How  can  truth  be  elicited  by  this  method, 
this  holding  up  of  apple  or  orange  to  the  public 
eye  ?  Granted,  that  the  apple  is  very  pretty,  very 
round  ;  still  we  do  not  want  always  to  look  at 
apples,  and  then  the  same  apple — nonsense. 

But  if  you  are  determined  to  go  into  the  pulpit  to 
read  essays,  to  crack  theological  nuts,  to  phantas- 
magorise,  and  to  start  questions  as  sportsmen  start 
hares — by  all  means  learn  Spanish,  and  read  the 
works  of  Escobar.  There  you  shall  find  such 
questions  as  these  discussed  : — 

"  How  many  keys  gave  Christ  to  Peter  } " 

"  What  became  of  the  ark  of  the  covenant  at  the 
first  destruction  of  Jerusalem  ?  " 

"  Which  is  most  obliged  to  the  other — the  Virgin 
Mary  to  sinners,  or  sinners  to  the  Virgin  Mary ; 
they  to  her  for  bringing  forth  the  Redeemer,  or 
she  to  them  for    having-  made  a    Redeemer  neces- 


sary 


?  » 


"  Whether  the  grief  Our  Lady  felt  at  the  cruci- 
fixion was  greater  or  less  than  her  joy  at  the 
resurrection  }  " 

"  Why  God  is  Three  Persons  rather  than  four  or 
five — rather  than  any  other  number — particularly  as 
musicians  account  three  an  imperfect  number  ?  " 

"  Who  governed  heaven  when  God  was  in  the 
Virgin's  womb  ?  " 

"  The  rib  of  Adam  having  belonged  to  both,  who 
will  have  it  at  the  resurrection  ?  " 

"  Is  there  a  free  will  in  brutes  ? "  etc.,  etc.* 

When   learned   essayists  carry  their  performances 

•  There  is  an  interesting  account  of  this  curious  book,  and 
the  old  friar,  in  Southey's  "  Omniana,"  vol.  ii.,  pp.  295-330. 

30 


466  HENRY  MELVILL. 

into  the  pulpit,  they  stumble  on  matters  certainly 
sometimes  quite  as  conducive  to  salvation  as  the 
above  delectable  moot  points. 

Fine  preaching,  we  say,  this  of  Mr.  Melvill's  ;   and 
the  labour  bestowed  upon  it  was  said  to  have  been 
immense.       During   the  time  that    he  preached    at 
Camden  Chapel  in  London,  the  reports  in  circulation 
respecting  the  solicitude  manifested  by  him  during  the 
composition  of  a  discourse  were  many  and  ludicrous. 
We  heard  that  he  was  quite  inaccessible  for  about 
eight  hours  of  every  day  in  the  week,  closely  locked,  it 
was  said,  within  his  study.     He,  at  that  time,  was  said 
to  bestow  pains  upon  his  discourses,  as  if,  instead  of 
being  delivered  to  two  thousand  persons,  they  were 
to  be  models  for  all  future  ages.      We  have  some- 
times doubted  this,  and  are  still  prepared  to  believe 
that  they  are  exaggerators   who    assure  us  that  at 
these  times  he  invariably  wrote  his  discourses   twice 
and  sometimes  thrice  ;  after  which  they  were  tran- 
scribed by  his  wife,  in  a  clear  and  legible  hand,  for 
the  pulpit.      Suppose  the  case  not  to  be  so  bad  as 
this,  still   is  it  not  dreadful  thus  to  misunderstand 
the  intentions  of  the  Gospel  ministry }     We  do  not 
impugn   Mr.   Melvill's  piety  ;  if  he  did  this,  it  was 
no     more     than    hundreds    have    done    to    far    less 
purpose  than  he.      But  this  vamping-up,  by  whom- 
soever   practised,    does    seem    to    be    a     deplorable 
mistake  ;  and  our  belief  personally  is,  that  in  this, 
or  something  like  this,  we  are  to  look  for  the  real 
failure   of  the  modern   ministry.      To  prowl  to  and 
fro  in  a  study  for  hours  and  days,  searching  for  the 
corbels    of   speech ;    to    fasten    upon    a   word   or    a 
sentence,  and  pop  it  down  because  fine  and  likely 


STUDY  LABOUR  MISAPPLIED,  467 

to  create  an  effect  ;  the  fidgety  anxiety  with  wLich 
the  sermon  advances  ;  the  fastidious  rejection  of  this 
word  and  another  ;  the  vanity  induced  by  all  this  ; 
the  wonder  how  it  will  tell  ;  the  rejection  of  visitors 
who  may  desire  an  interview,  where  a  better  word 
might  be  spoken  ; — men  who  act  thus  surround 
themselves  with  a  kind  of  awe-struck  wonder  ;  men 
who  are  only  seen  in  the  pulpit  to  advantage  at  all, 
who  are  everlastingly  fearful  lest  they  may  have 
committed  themselves  by  some  action  rather  more 
human  and  friendly  than  ordinary.  And  what  does 
this  imply  ?  The  belief  that  the  minister  should  be 
another  being  than  the  hearer — that  he  is  holier, 
wiser,  better  :  this  is  the  current  belief,  and  it  must 
be  said  that  the  people  do  all  they  can  to  encourage 
the  idea.  Presently  the  veil  drops  ;  in  company, 
people  perhaps  find  that  the  ministry  is  composed  of 
beings  like  themselves  ;  and,  as  all  persons  dislike  to 
find  themselves  wrong,  especially  when  they  imposed 
upon  themselves,  they  pour  down  a  torrent  of  angry 
maledictions  upon  the  whole  race  of  ministers  ; 
finding  them  no  better  than  others,  they  determine 
that  they  must  therefore  be  worse.  In  all  these 
remarks  we  intend  no  invidious  allusions  to  Mr. 
Melvill  ;  we  should  judge  him  to  have  been  a  most 
lovely  and  kindly  man.  Often,  very  often,  have  we 
seen  him,  during  the  reading  of  prayers  on  the 
Sabbath  evening,  open  his  pew-door  and  beckon  in 
some  poor  old  man  or  woman  standing  in  the  crowded 
aisle.  On  such  occasions  he  always  shared  his 
Prayer-book  with  the  humble  worshipper.  Little 
traits  of  character  like  these  open  up  to  us  the 
whole  manhood,  especially  when  we  see  them  to  be 


468  HENRY  MELVILL. 

the  result  of  unaffected  and  spontaneous  kindness. 
No,  no  !  we  mean  here  nothing  more  than  the 
discussion  of  the  inflated  style  of  discourse  as  a 
means  of  pulpit  instruction  ;  our  remarks  must  apply, 
not  to  Henry  Melvill,  but  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
for  that  gentleman  is  installed  reader  and  preacher 
in  many  a  church  and  chapel  throughout  the  king- 
dom ;  and,  consistently  with  ourselves  and  our  book, 
we  turn  aside  repeatedly  in  the  course  of  our  pages 
to  enter  our  protest  against  the  oratory  which 
affects  the  ears  more  than  the  perceptions,  and  gives 
more  colours  to  fancy  than  impulses  to  holiness. 


THE   END. 


INDEX. 


Abelard,   Peter,    83,  and    St.    Ber- 
nard, 97-99. 
Abraham,  the  palace  of,  227. 
Action,  eloquence  in,  17. 
Actions,  good  mending  bad,  422. 
Afterwards,  320. 
Allegory,  a  strange,  252. 
Amram,  the  son  of,  114. 
Ananias,  a  discourse  on,  261. 
Ancients,  eloquence  of  the,  52. 

Anecdotes  : — 

Amram,  the  son  of,  1 14. 

Arius  and  the  Bishop,  39. 

Ass,     coveting    thy    neighbour's, 

237- 
Bishop,  treated  as  a,  247,  24S. 
"  Cask,  fill  up  the,"  363. 
Christian  versus  fool,  300. 
Clothes?  where  are  your,  241. 
Commandments,  ten,  352,  353. 
Conversation,  a  set-off  to,  205. 
Cotin,  Abbe,  and  Bos.suet,  12,  13. 
Curate  and  the  old  woman,  the, 

313.  314- 
Desolation,  a  picture  of,  274. 
"  Devil,  I  meant  it  for  the,"  244. 
Dictionary  or  Bible?  115. 
Divinity,  no  sick,  242. 
Dose,  getting  his,  303. 
Elect,  chalking  the,  264. 
Euiychus,  fate  of,  358. 
Father,    a  child  riding   its    own, 

243,  244. 
Fichte,  of,  45. 


Anecdotes  {continued)  :— 
Fire,  give  life  to  the,  375. 
Good-bye  for  ever,  299. 
Gratitude,  350. 
Hairs,  splitting,  289,  290. 
Hall,  Robert,  of,  178. 
Horse,  the  priest's,  243. 
Ideas,  a  juxtaposition  of,  271. 
Infidel  and  missionary,  274-2S0. 
Lodging,  giving  the  devil  a,  346. 
Louis  XIV.  and  Massillon,  7. 
iVIethodist  and  settler,  242. 
Minister,  a  nice,  364. 
Mollah  and  the  Koran,  the,  126. 
Name,  a  little  boy's,  244. 
Order,    kneeling    and    standing, 

243- 
Paintings,    the    Scotchman    and 

the,    379. 
Pity  the  lads,  352. 
Prayer,  a  singular,  243. 
Praying,  290. 
Preacher,  a  ready,  13-15. 
Preacher,  a  strange,  50. 
Preacher,  a  youthful,  8. 
Preachers,  how  made,  243. 
Preachers,  the  two,  51. 
Quaker  and  the  manuscript,  the, 

277. 
Quincey,  De,  and  the  cook,  118, 

119. 
"  Revision,  I  am  the,"  375. 
Rich,  woe  to  the,  359.  360. 
Ricliard  I.  and  Blondel,  35. 
Short  and  tedious,  358. 
Spiridion,  of,  40, 


470 


INDEX. 


Anecdotes  [continued') : — 
Stale  bread,  290. 
Stones,  false,  389. 
Student  and  his  mother,  the,  346. 
Taylor,  Father,  of,  288-290. 
Text,  a  singular,  267. 
Twice,  heard  the  clock,  358. 
Umbrella,  religion  an,  264. 
Unitarian  rebuked,  the,  300. 
Waugh,    Alexander,    342,     346, 

347- 

'*  Weet,  I'm  vara,"  356. 

Whims,  Dr.  Watts's,  267. 

"NVhitefield  and  Chesterfield,  32. 
Another,  one  cried  unto,  398. 
Antioch,  Chrysostom  at,  209. 
Apostrophe,  power  of,  455. 
Appeal,  a  mother's,  207,  208. 
Aquitaine,  Duke,  and  St.   Bernard, 

190. 
Argument,    a    convincing,    39-40 ; 

parables  older  than,  434,  435. 
Arius  and  the  Bishop,  39. 
Ark,  story  of  the,  425-427. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  quoted,  120. 
Art,    Carlyle   and    Ruskin  on,    78  ; 

speech  not  inferior  to,  193  ;  pulpit, 

323>  324- 

Asbury,  Bishop,  240,  241. 

Ascham,  Roger,  quoted,  50. 

Ass.  coveting  a  neighbour's,  237. 

Athens,  3ti-3i3- 

Atoms,  man  a  bundle  of,  279,  280. 

Attraction  necessary  for  a  Sabbath, 
436. 

Audience  and  preacher,  324,  325. 

Augustine  and  Chrysostom  com- 
pared, 207. 

Austerities,  St.  Bernard's,  66,  67. 


B 


Bartholomew,  a  sermon  on,  317. 
Basil,  St.,  vision  of,  222. 
Bathos,  magnificent,  450. 
Beans,  the  swine  and  the,  265. 
Beggar,  the  blind,  32. 
Beloved,  leaning  on  her,  305,  306. 
Bernard,  St.,  or  Demosthenes?  1S9. 

achievements,  190-192. 

—  birth  and  parentage,  62, 


boyhood,  63. 

work,  called  to  his,  65. 

austerities,  66,  67. 

love  of  nature,  67,  68. 

builds  Clairvaux,  69,  84. 

William  of  Champeaux,  70. 

on  monkish  fare,  73. 

miracles,  73-75. 

■ visit  to  Paris,  75. 

on  a  Cluniac  dinner,  76. 

on  monkish  dress,  76. 

on  rich  churches,  77. 

address  to  Knights  Templars, 

79- 

on  the  Crusaders,  80. 

and  the  rival  popes,  81. 

and  Henry  I.,  82,  83. 

and  Pope  Innocent,  83. 

return  to  Clairvaux,  84. 

on  the  Song  of  Solomon,  85. 

illustrations   of  style,  87,    88, 

92,  94. 

■ conversions  by,  90. 

■ death  of  Gerard,  91. 

and  Peter  Abelard,  97-99. 

preaches  the  second  Crusade, 

99- 

death,  loi. 

Berridge,  John,  256,  257  J  drollery 

of,  258. 
Bible  or  dictionary?  115. 
Binney,  humour  and  satire  of,  281, 

282. 
Birch,  Rev.  Euclid,  194. 
Bishop,  story  of  an   old,   38  ;  and 

dean,  237  ;  treated  as  a,  247. 
Bishops,     "  Brother    George  "    on, 

129. 
Bitten,  the  biter,  243. 
Bloodthirstiness,  saintly,  79. 
Book  versus  speech,  278. 
BossuetatDeRambouillet,9-il ;  and 

the  abbes,  12  ;  and  Melville,  444. 
Boston,     Father    Taylor    in,    2S5  ; 

Jenny  Lind  in,  299. 
Bostwick,  Dr.,  anecdote  of,  243,  244. 
Boyhood,  St.  Bernard's,  63. 
Boyle,  Robert,  on  preaching,  184. 
Bradbury,  Tom,  266. 
Braggarts,  noisy,  326. 
Bread,  stale,  290. 


INDEX. 


471 


Brevity,    evils    of,    357  ;    necessity 

for,  365,  366. 
Brush  College,  graduates  of,  242. 
Burke,  Edmuud,  as  an  orator,  371. 
"  But,"  a  sermon  on,  317. 


Camp,  preachers  in  the,  140. 
Canning,  anecdote  of,  358. 
Cares,  pastoral,  350. 
Carlyle  on  preachers  and  pulpit,  48, 

49  ;  quoted,  78. 
Carpenter,  the  learned,  269,  270. 
"  Cask,  fill  up  the,"  363. 
Caturce,  Jean  de,  sermon  by.  57. 
Chalmers.    Dr.,   eloquence  of,    iS ; 

and  Melville,  443,  444. 
Champeaux,    William    of,    and    St. 

Bernard,  70. 
Chananiah,  Rabbi.  370. 
Channing  and  Father  Taylor,  299. 
Chemistry,  sublimity  of,  381. 
Chesterfield,  Lord,  and  Whitefield, 

32  ;  quoted,  183. 
Children,  loss   of,    149 ;    death  of, 

348. 
Christ,  Thorwaldsen's,  200-202. 
Christians,  burial  rites  of  the  early, 

226. 
Chrysostom,  power  of,  198. 

birth  and  parentage'  206. 

compared  with  Augustine,  207. 

mother  of,  207,  208. 

training  for  work,  209. 

at  Anlioch,  209. 

statues  of,  210. 

style,  ilhistrations  of,  211,  216, 

224,  226,  227,  229. 

bishop  of  Constantinople,  213. 

social  reformer,  214. 

synod  of  the  Oak,  215. 

arrest  and  banishment,  216. 

triumphant  return,  217,  218. 

second  banishment,  220. 

life  in  exile,  221. 

vision  of  St.  Basil,  222. 

death  and  burial,  222,  223. 

personal  appearance,  231. 

■  as  a  preacher,  232,  233. 

Church,   oratory  born    in   the,    15  ; 


vision  of  a  stone,  133  ;  preachers 

of  the  early,  204. 
Churches,  vanity  of  rich,  77. 
Clairvaux,  the   Abbey.  69,  71,  72, 

84. 
Clara,  Abraham  Sancta,  249. 
Clothes?  where  are  your,  241. 
Coal,  the  text  a  live,  316  ;  a  living, 

375.  376. 

Coals,  live,  314. 

Coarseness,  246,  252. 

Conciseness  and  diffuseness,  364. 

Congregations,  fashionable,  437. 

Conscience  a  power,  331  ;  a  monu- 
ment of,  332-334 ;  difficulty  of 
dealing  with,  334. 

Constantinople,  Chrysostom  bishop 
of,  213. 

Conversation,  a  set-off  to,  265. 

Conversions,  mediaeval,  90. 

Conviction,  ora'ory  in,  362. 

Convictions,  visited  by,  420. 

Cormenin,  Viscount  de,  quoted,  199. 

Cotin,  Abbe,  12,  13. 

Cow,  the  Gospel  a  milch,  239. 

Cowper  quoted,  I,  2.  3,  4,  5°- 

Credulity,  scientific,  384,  385. 

Creeds,  P'ather  Taylor  on,  298. 

CrosSj  pulpit  at  St.  Paul's,  268. 

Crowns,  more,  301. 

Crusade,  the  first,  63 ;  preaching 
the  second,  99-101. 

Crusaders,  description  of,  80. 

Curate,  advice  to  a  young,  313,  314. 

D 

Dancing,  pulpit  tight-rope,  462,463. 

Darwin  quoted,  44. 

David,  Psalms  of,  44. 

Dawson,    Billy,     247,     248,     267  ; 

quoted,  424,  425. 
Deacon's  one-horse  shay  quoted,  181. 
Deans,  Jeanie,  appeal  of,  181. 
Death,  Jeremy  Taylor's,  152,   153; 

St.    Chrysostom's,    222  ;    Father 

Taylor's,  307. 
Delivery,  a  slow,  399,  400. 
Demosthenes,  eloquence  of,  51,  52; 

and  Robert  Hall  compared,  177, 

178;  or  St.  Bernard?  189. 


472 


INDEX. 


Denominations,  advice  to  all,  294- 

297. 
Desolation,  a  picture  of,  274. 
Devil,  preaching  of  the,  200 ;    "I 

meant  it  for  the,"  244 ;  dialogue 

on  the,  271. 
Diabolus,  Frater,  37, 
Dialogue,  a  singular,  271. 
Dickens,  Charles,  quoted,  305  ;  on 

preaching,  315. 
Dictionary  or  Bible?  115. 
Died,  in  the  year  King  Uzziah,  396. 
Dies,  every  man,  456-459. 
Dinner,  a  Cluniac,  76. 
Discourses,  character  of  our  Lord's, 

.^75- 
Divine,  sayings  of  a  Scotch,  254 ; 

an  old  world,  337. 
Dominican,  sermon  by  a,  123,  124. 
Drawing-room,  throne  of  eloquence 

in  a,  8,  9. 
Dress,  monkish  love  of,  76. 
Droll  in  the  pulpit,  the,  236. 
"  Ductor    dubitantium,"     character 

of,  164. 
Duke,  Melvill  and  the  Iron,  322. 
Dulness,  power  of,  376. 
Dyer  quoted,  144. 

E 
Ear-gate,  35. 

Effective,  ridicule  may  be,  279. 
Elect,  chalking  the,  264. 
Eloquence  : — 

Action  is,  17. 

Ancient  and  modern,  172. 

Attribute  of  the  highest,  181. 

Blazing,  52. 

Chalmers,  Dr.,  18,  19. 

Demosthenes,  51,  52. 

Hall,  Robert,  19,  20,  179. 

House-that-Jack-built    style     of, 
114,  115. 

Hume  on,  52. 

Mind  in  motion,  173. 

Niagara  style  of,  21. 

Outgrown,  187. 

Persuasion  is,  174. 

Present  day,  21. 

Pulpit  the  throne  of,  4,  16,  17. 

Savonarola's,  42. 


Eloquence  {continued)  : — 

Throne  of,  2,  3. 

Trollhallen  style  of,  19. 

Truth  of  real,  177. 

Versus  poetry,  185. 

Whitefield's,  25-33. 
Emerson,  Father  Taylor  on,  293. 
Epigram,  a  French,  314. 
Epitaph,  an  impressive,  257. 
Essayists,  order  of,  172. 
Esthetic,  380. 

Eudoxia,  Empress,  statue  of,  219. 
Eutychus,  fate  of,  358. 
Evelyn,  John,  and  Jeremy  Taylor, 

148. 
Evening,  the  gladness  of,  401. 
Example,  a  healthful,  351. 
Exile,   Chrysostom   in,  221  ;  return 

from,  229. 
Expression,  the  Lady  of,  135. 
Ezerborn,  story  of  the  clock  of,  168. 
Ezra,  the  preaching  of,  309-311. 


Gehazi,  Rev.  Mr.,  373. 

Genesis,   wanderings   in   search   of, 

3S4  ;  Professor  Tyndall's,  385-388, 
Gerard,  St.    Bernard's  lament   for, 

94-97- 
Gerund,  Friar,  preaching  of,  274. 
Gibbon  referred  to,  214,  215,  218. 
God,  nothing  great  but,  7  ;  wrath  of, 

27  ;  all  in  all,    87  ;  feet    of,    88  ; 

loving-kindness  of,  211. 
Goethe  quoted,  176,  177. 
Gold  and  lead  in  oratory,  183. 
Golden  Grove,  Taylor  at,  144. 
Gospel  a  milch  cow,  the,  239. 
Gospels,  the  two,  199. 
Grammar,  breaking,  264. 
Grandees,  story   of  congregational, 

103-107. 
Graveyard,  lessons  of  a,  452-454. 
Gray  quoted,  112. 
Groaning,  289. 

Guerin,  Pere,  a  sermon  by,  252. 
Gwennap  Pit,  the,  24,  25. 

H 

Hairs,  splitting,  289,  290. 


INDEX. 


473 


Hall,  Robert,  eloquence  of,  \%  20  ; 
and  Demosthenes  contrasted,  I77  > 
on  Rowland  Hill,  264  ;  on  Alex- 
ander Waugh,  340  ;  imitated,  459- 

Hamilton,  Dr.  William,  321. 

Harm's,  Pastor,  advice,  364. 

Haslebach  characterized,  370. 

Hatton,  Lord,  dedication  to,  143- 

Heat,  mechanical  equivalent  lor, 
315. 

Heaven,  hearing  the  bells  of,  301. 

Henr)',  Matthew,  quoted,  50  ;  sim- 
plicity of,  126-128. 

Henry  I.  and  St.  Bernard,  82,  83. 

Hibbard,  Billy,  anecdotes  of,  244. 

Hieroglyphics,  nature  a  system  of, 

380. 
Hill,  Rowland,  and  the  Gospel,  239  ; 

anecdotes  of,  263-265. 
Hiram,  present  of  to  the  Temple, 

235. 
Horace,  mottoes  of,  126,  352. 
Hume  on  eloquence,  52. 
Humour  in  the  pulpit,  237,  238,  252, 

267,  268  ;   true,   246,    253,    254 ; 

children  of,  259  ;  what  is,    283  ; 

Father  Taylor's,  290-292. 

I 

Ideas,  a  juxtaposition  of,  271, 

If,  Sergeant,  258. 

Illustration,  a  touching,  343  ;  value 

of,  433-     ,^ 

Imagery,  bold,  53. 

Images,  rhetorical,  115,  116  ;  quaint 
and  graphic,  290-292  ;  pictures  of 
the  soul,  423-  ,  „ 

Imagination,  James  Parsons,  328- 
330  ;  what  is,  418,  419  ;  embody- 
ing and  unbosoming,  427  ;  work 
of' the,  4?.9.  430-  , 

Infidel  and  the  missionary,  the,  279, 
280. 

Infidelity,  modern,  178. 

Innocent,    Pope,   and    St.  Bernard, 

83- 
Instruction,  value  of  oral,  193. 
Instructor,  the  minister  an,  415. 
Invitation,  the  voice  of,  202,  203. 
Itinerants,  rough  and  ready,  245. 


Jameson,  Mrs.,  quoted,  298. 

Jay,   William,    happy    humour   of, 

253,  254;  and  Alexander  Waugh, 

340. 
Jerrold,  Douglas,  quoted,  421. 
Johnson,  Dr.,  advice  of,  364. 
Joy,  saints  shouting  for,  425. 

K 

Kedar,  as  the  tents  of,  92. 

Knights  Templars,  exhortation   to, 

79. 
Knill,  Richard,  pathos  of,  117. 
Koran,  reading  the,  126. 
Kruber,  Jacob,   anecdotes   of,  242- 

244  ;  illustrations,  259,  260  ;  droll 

sayings  of,  260,  261. 


L's,  the  three,  364. 
Labour     and     perseverance,     367. 
368  ;  study  misapplied,  466,  469. 
Lads,  pity  the,  352. 
Lambs,  Father  Taylor's.  285. 
Language,   wonderful   pulpit,    115, 

116. 
Lantern,  the  dark,  420. 
Laughter  a  great  preacher,  238. 
Law,  preaching  on  the.  302. 
Legend,  a  medieval,  37. 
Lessons  not  laces,  424. 
Leviticus,  preaching  from,  275. 
Levity  in  the  pulpit,  316. 
Life,  the  face  an  index  to  the,  394, 

395  ;  resurrection  and  the.  459. 
Light,  kindling  Scripture,  226  ;  not 

smoke,  359. 
Likeness,  human,  in  all  things.  420. 
Lincoln,  President,  prayer  for,  290. 
Lind,  Jenny,  in  Boston,  299,  300. 
Lion,  Luther's  fable  of  the,  200. 
Liveth,  He  ever,  348. 
Livingstone,  John,  referred  to.  50. 
Lodging,  giving  the  devil  a.  346. 
Logic,     limitations     of,    41^  ;    ^""^ 

parable,  424. 
Louis  XIV.  and  Massillon,  7  ;  anec- 
dote of,  359,  360. 


474 


INDEX. 


Luther,  preaching  of,  49 ;  fable  of 
the  lion,  200 ;  maxims  for 
preachers,  358. 

Lynch,  Thomas,  quoted,  431. 


M 


MacAll,  Dr.,  and  the  Methodist,  51. 
Manner  is  the  soul,  304,  305. 
Mansell,  Dean,  quoted,  122. 
Mansoul,  the  town  of,  34. 
Martineau,  Miss,  quoted,  293. 
Martyr,  sermon  from  a,  57. 
Martyrdom,  Savonarola's,  48. 
Massillon  in  Notre  Dame,  6  ;  and 

Louis  XIV.,  7- 
Melancholy,  349. 
Melvill,  Henry,  and  the  Iron  Duke, 

322,  323- 

youthful  memories  of,  439. 

power  as  an  orator,  440,  441. 

and  Dr.  Chalmers,  443. 

and  Bossuet,  444. 

choice  of  texts,  444,  445. 

style  an  influence,  445-450. 

illustrations,  450,452,  454,  456, 

459- 

power  over  his  audience,  451. 

fine  style  of  preacher,  461. 

Metaphysics,  life  a  region  of,  3S3  ; 

grandeur   of,  390  ;  definition    of, 

419. 
Metropolis,  magnets  of  the,  437. 
Meulen,  Van  der,  quoted,  125. 
Micah  the  priest-maker,  254,  255. 
Miller,  Hugh,  quoted,  319. 
Milman,  Dean,  referred  to,  214,  215. 
Mind,  a  well-furnished,  339. 
Minister,  anold  world,  364 ;  criticism 

upon  a,  364. 
Ministers,  character  of  Scotch,  338  ; 

scholarship  of  modern,  339. 
Ministry,  rowdyism  in  the,  130. 
Miracles,  St.  Bernard's,  73-75. 
Misers,  how  to  use,  264. 
Monastery,  the  medieval,  65. 
Monkeys     and    peacocks     for    the 

temple,  235- 
Montgomery,  James,  quoted,  53. 
Morgan,  De,  a  story  by,  115. 


Mother,    St.     Bernard's,    62;    St. 

Chrysostom's,    207-209  ;   student 

and  his,  346. 
Motion,  mind  in,  173. 
Motives,  words  becoming,   174. 
Muliois,    Abbe,    advice    of,     357 ; 

quoted,  365. 
Music,  power  of,  399. 

N 

Naaman,  cure  of,  406-41 1. 
Name,  a  little  boy's,  244. 
Napoleon  I.,  harangues  of,  365. 
Narni,  Friar,  power  of,  198. 
New  Testament  folk-lore,  432. 
Newton,  John,  on  Whitefield,  28. 
Nice,  Council  of,   incidents  in  the, 

39-41- 

Nitrogen,  wonders  of,  381-383. 

NoUey,  Richard,  and  the  settler, 
242. 

Normandy,  Marquis,  and  his  chap- 
lain, 358. 

Notre  Dame,  Massillon  in,  6. 

Nuts,  cracking  theological,  465. 

O 

Oak,  the  Synod  of  the,  215. 

Orations,  Melvill's,  440-443. 

Orator,  the  true,  187;  a  great 
natural,  2S6  ;  versus  singer,  360. 

Orators,  various,  180;  uncomfort- 
able cousins,  186. 

Oratory,  secular  and  sacred,  15,  16  ; 
a  mystery,  179  ;  effects  of,  188. 

Order,  kneeling  and  standing,  243. 

Organ,  nature  an,  390-392. 


Parable,  power  of  the  true,  431-434. 

Parables,  two,  421,  422. 

Paris,  mediKval,   75. 

Parker,  Dr.  Josejih,  quoted,  318. 

Parr,  Dr.,  quoted,   119. 

Parsons,  Benjamin,  at  home,  374. 

Parsons,    James,    quiet    power   of 

326  ;  imagination  of,  328-330. 
Pathos  a  tongue  of  fire,  41  ;  a  bit  of 

real,  117. 


INDEX. 


475 


Pedantry  in  the  pulpit,  112;  sati- 
rised, 113. 

Peel,  Sir  Robert,  quoted,  131. 

Pen,  judicial,  power  of  the,  46-48  ; 
versus  pulpit,  48. 

Persuasion,  eloquence  is,  174. 

Pharisaism,  natural  history  of,  437- 

439- 
Pharisee  and  publican,  273. 
Philosopher,  the  shepherd  and  the, 

40,  41. 
Philosophy,  false,  388-390. 
Phocin  quoted,  188. 
Pictures,    two  ways  of  looking   at, 

378,  379- 
Pit,  the  Gwennap,  24,  25. 
Plausibility,  the  curse  of  the  pulpit, 

195- 
Poetical  quotations,  i,  2,  3,  4,  12, 
13,  25.  27,  45,  50,  53,  60,  62, 
III,  112,  122,  130,  144,  172, 
177,  181,  269,  292.  297,  314,  316, 
319.  325.  331,371,  373,  377.380, 
381,  401,  418,  423,  425,  427,  428, 

430,  431,  433,  447- 

Poetry  versus  eloquence,  185. 

Pokers,  the  two,  421. 

Polyglott,  Rev.  Erebius,  194. 

Popes,  rival,  81. 

Power,  the  hitting,  5  ;  the  hooking, 
50. 

Poyser,  Mrs.,  a  saying  of,  424, 

Prayer,  a  humourous,  242,  243. 

Prayers,  singular,  288-290. 

Praying  and  fighting,  64. 

Preach,  how  and  what  to,  49. 

Preacher,  the,  2,  3  ;  a  youthful,  8 ; 
anecdote  of  a  ready,  13-15  ;  the 
strange,  50 ;  a  poet,  157  ;  St. 
Chrysostoni  as  a,  232  ;  lau.^hter  a 
great,  238  ;  an  extraordinaiy.  303, 
304  ;  power  of  the,  330  ;  a  poet 
and  painter,  404,  405. 

Preachers,  Wesley's  advice  to,  50  ; 
last  of  the  medii^val,  54  ;  Ruskin 
on  pulpit  and,  108-III  ;  ornamen- 
tal, 131  ;  three  orders  of,  171,  172; 
Christ  a  model  for,  175  ;  abiding 
work  of,  184  ;  all  men  not  fitted 
for,  196  ;  early  church,  204,  205  ; 
backwoods,  240,    241,    244-246; 


how  to  make,  243  ;  velvet-lipped, 
261 ;  fine,  264  ;  characterized,  269; 
fine  but  false,  273  ;  various,  304  ; 
and  audience,  324,  325  ;  maxims 
for,  358  ;  advice  to,  364. 

Preaching,  foolishness  of,  I,  1 97 
brave.  4 ;  Dr.  Chalmers',  18, 
Whitefield's,  26,  27 ;  polished  and 
plain,  51  ;  ingenious,  126- 1 28  ; 
Robert  Boyle  on,  184;  that  is 
wanted,  277;  Father  Taylor's,  287. 
288  ;  Dickens  on,  315;  foolishness 
and  foolish,  318  ;  impressions  of 
Stratten's,  396  ;  the  essay  style  of, 
464.  _ 

Pretentiousness,  learned,  121. 

Professor  compared  to  a  sow,  203. 

Prolixity,  learned,  371. 

Prophesying,     Taylor's    liberty    of, 
166. 

Psalm  xxiii.,  a  new  version  of,  321. 

Pulpit,  action  in  the,  23. 

Ages,  in  the  Middle.  253. 

art,  323,  324. 

Carlyle  on  the,  48,  49. 

Cowper's  estimate  of  the,  2. 

coxcomb  in  the.  the.  4. 

droll  in  the,  the,  236. 

drollery  a  set-off  to  the,  266. 

eccentricity  in  the,  253,  254. 

eloquence  of  the,  17. 

false  finery  in  the.  III. 

finery  in  the,  103. 

freedom  needed  in  the,  276. 

humour  in  the,  267,  268.  337. 

intellect  and  feeling  in  the,  21, 

22. 
levity  in  the,  316. 

man  in  the,  3. 

manner  in  the,  304.  305. 

moral    force     needeil    in    the, 

198. 

oration  in  the,  21-23. 

pedantry  in  the,    I12. 

plausibility  the    curse  of  the, 

195- 

Punch  in  the,  267. 

— —  satire  in  the,  281,  282. 

■ should  be  guarded,  277. 

singular  language  in  the,  1 15, 

ii6. 


476 


INDEX. 


Pulpit,  stake  as  a,  the,  58-60. 

story  of  the,  1-3. 

St.  Paul's  Cross.  268. 

throne  of  eloquence,  4.  17. 

throne  of  the  orator,  16. 

tongue  of  tire,  the,  39. 

versus  pen,  48. 

Pulpits,  artistic  Continental,  107. 

Ruskin  on  preachers  and,  108, 

109-111. 


Quaker,  manuscript  of  the,  277. 
Quietness,  power  of,  326. 
Quincey,  De,  and  the  cook,  118,  119. 

R 

Rambouillet,  De,  Bossuet  at,  9-1 1. 
Reformer,  Chrysostom  asocial,  214. 
Return,  to  God  belongeth  the,  335. 
Reviewer,  characteristics  of  a,  178. 
Rib,  Adam's,  sermon  on,  125. 
Richard  I.  and  Blondel,  35. 
Ridicule,  power  of,  279. 
Ridley,  last  words  of,  59,  60. 
River,  beyond  the,  348. 
Robertson,  Frederick,  quoted,  429, 

430- 
Robinson,     Robert,    and    Carnifex, 

271. 
Rogers,  Henry,  quoted,  436. 
Ruskin  quoted,  78;  on  pulpits  and 

preachers,  108-111. 


Satanology,  318. 

Savonarola,  preaching  of,  42  ;  mar- 
tyrdom of,  43. 

Sayes  Court,  322. 

Sayings,  droll,  260. 

Science,  limitations  of,  384,  385  ; 
false  finery  of,  38S,  389. 

Scotchman,  a  genuine,  341. 

Scotus,  Dun,  quoted,  125. 

Seclusion,  penalties  of.  411-414. 

Secunda,  mother  of  Chiysostom, 
207-209. 

Seeing,  two  ways  of,  378,  379. 

Self-consciousness,  ministrations  to, 
353- 


Self-denial,  the  art  of,  274,  275. 

Sens,  tournament  of,  99. 

Sermon,  an  impromptu,  14;  a  good, 
50 ;  singular  divisions  of  a,  1 14, 
115  ;  a  Dominican,  123  ;  on 
Adam's  rib,  125  ;  model  divisions 
of  a,  126,  127;  by  Matthew  Wilks, 
183;  and  looking-glass,  184; 
coarse  (note),  247-249,  252  ;  on  a 
tombstone,  257  ;  a  singular,  294- 
297  ;  a  nasty,  318  ;  length  of  the, 
356,  357  ;  a  model,  406-41 1  ;  a 
thing  sui  generis,  417  ;  an  alle- 
goric, 424,  425. 

Sermons.  Jeremy  Taylor's,  132 ; 
character  of,  169,  171  ;  method  of 
construction,  194  ;  singular,  276  ; 
foolish,  318  ;  dryness  of,  356,  357  ; 
obscurity  in,  359 ;  printed,  360, 
361  ;  long. 364. 

Service,  an  ideal  Christian,  309-311. 

Shakespeare  quoted,  17. 

Short  and  tedious,  358. 

Simeon,  Charles,  simplicity  of,  II4. 

Simplicity,  Divine,  50. 

"  Sm,  that  is,"  319. 

Sisters,  the  three,  134. 

Smith,  Sydney,  saying  of,  369. 

Society,  mediaeval,  85. 

Socrates,  175. 

Soda-water,  decanted,  361. 

Sodom,  apples  of,  141. 

Solemnity,  mock,  395. 

Solomon,  Hiram's  present  to,  235. 

Son,  the  prodigal,  250-252. 

Song  of  Solomon,  St.  Bernard's,  86. 

Sorrow,  medicine  for,  348. 

Soul,  influence  over  the,  331. 

Soul,  manner  is  the,  304,  305. 

Soul,  the  overfall,  362. 

Souls,  how  to  touch,  38. 

Sounds,  joyful,  402. 

Sovereigns,  dead  but  sceptred,  23. 

Sow,  Rowland  Hill's  use  of  the,  263. 

Speaker,  the  jniblic,  196. 

Speech,  origin  of,  43  ;  Darwin  on, 
44  ;  power  of  not  to  be  despised. 
192  •,vcrsus  book,  278  ;  grotesque 
modes  of,  290.  291  ;  plainness 
indispensable,  368,  369. 

Speed  in  oratory,  1 79. 


INDEX. 


477 


Spiridion,  story  of,  40,  41. 
Spirit,  the  imprisoned,  36. 
Spurgeon,  C.  H.,  quoted,  53. 
Stake,  preaching  at  the,  5S-60. 
Stewart,  Alexander,  Hugh  Miller  on, 

319- 
Sticks,  dry,  356,  372,  373- 
Stones,  spurious,  389. 
Stratten,   James,  characteristics  ot, 

393- 

face  of.  394>  395-  .        , 

expository  style,  395,  390,  400, 

415- 
manner  of  delivery,  399,  400- 

isolation  of,  4II-4I4- 

theology  of,  414-, 

an  instructor,  416. 

idiosyncrasy  of,  159. 

illustrations,   396,    398,     401, 

402,  404,  406. 
Strauss's  Life  of  Christ,  281. 
Stream,  the  magnetic,  326. 
Style,  colloquial,  a,  300,  301. 

•  essay,  464. 

fine,  the,  461. 

Henry's,.  Matthew,  1 26- 128. 

house-that-Jack-built,    114, 

115- 

humour,  coarse,  252. 

Melvill's,  445-450- 

perspicuity  of,  462. 

stately,  the.  103. 

Straitens,  James,  395.  406. 

Taylor's,  Jeremy,  146,  147. 

vermilion  and  gamboge,    115, 

116. 
Style,  illustrations  of  : — 

Abraham,  the  palace  of,  227. 

Ananias,  261. 

beggar  and  his  dog,  32. 

Beloved,  leaning  on  her,  305. 

Bible,  the  English,  454. 

bloodthirstiness,  saintly,  79. 

children,  death  of,  348. 

Christians,  burial   rites  of  early, 
226. 

churches,  vanity  of  rich,  77. 

conscience,  1 59. 

crow,  260. 

Crusaders,  the,  80. 

Pavid,  Psalms  of,  344. 


Style,  illustrations  of  {continued)  :— 
death,  gaining  by,  216. 
devices,  ignorant  of  his,  265. 
dies,  every  roan,  456. 
exile,  return  from.  229. 
fishes,  sermon  to  the,  55-57- . 
forest,  autumnal  reflections  in  a, 

404. 
friends,  departed.  349. 
Gerard.  Brother,  94-97- 
God  all  in  all.  87. 
God,  boundless  loving-kindness  of. 
211. 

God,  the  feet  of,  88. 

graveyard,  lessons  of  a.  452. 

him.  I  don't  mean,  247. 

humanity,  all  the  sorrows  of,  162. 

If,  Sergeant,  258. 

imagination,  faculty  of,  429. 

Jesus.  450. 

Kedar,  as  the  tents  of,  92. 

lark  and  the  soul,  the,  158. 

liveth.  He  ever,  348. 

man,  life  and  reason  of,  1 59. 

melancholy,  349. 

Micah  the  priest-maker.  254,  255. 

Naaman,  the  cure  of,  406. 

religion,    lukewarmness    in,    loi. 

resurrection,    on  the  doctrine  of, 

459- 

river,  beyond  the,  348. 

self-denial,  the  art  of,  274. 

sickness,  sanctified,  157. 

Sodom,  apples  of,  141. 

son,  the  prodigal,  250. 

sorrow,  medicine  for,  348. 
•soul,    progress   of  towards   God, 
158. 

sounds,  joyful,  402. 

sow,  the  professor  as  a,  263. 

sympathy,  348. 

tenderness,  160. 

thief,  salvation  of  the,  224. 

trooper,  the  woun  ted,  141. 

vision,  Isaiah's.  398. 
Subject,  a  wide,  237. 
Sursum  Corda,  7. 
Sweetness  and  froth,  363. 
Symbolism,  462. 
Sympathy,  348. 
Symphony,  Rev,  Octavian,  194. 


478 


INDEX. 


Tabernacle,  scene  in  a,  29-32. 
Talkers,  the  order  of,  171. 
Taylor,  Father  :— 

birth  and  early  life,  285. 

in  Boston,  285. 

natural  orator,  286. 

characteristics,  286. 

method  of  preaching,  287. 

singular  prayers,  288-290. 

anecdotes,  290,  299,  300. 

humour,  290-292. 

tenderness,  292,  293. 

singular  sermon,  294-297. 

liberality  of,  297,  298. 

on  creeds.  298. 

Jenny  Lind  and.  299,  300. 

colloquial  style,  300,  301. 

and  the  law,  301-303. 

sailors,  304. 

sermon  by,  305. 

death  and  burial,  307. 

Taylor,  Jeremy. 

criticism  on  by  Dr.  South,  132. 

Withington,  Dr.,  on,  136. 

birth  and  ancestry,  138. 

career  of,  138. 

Uppingham,  life  at,  139. 

chaplain  to  the  king.  1 39- 142. 

apples  of  Sodom,  141. 

life  and  work  in  Wales,  142. 

liberty  of  prophesying    143 

Golden  Grove,  144-148,  i66. 

trials,   145. 

style,  146,  147. 

imprisoned,  148. 

and  Evelyn,  148. 

loss  of  children,  149. 

Kilulta,  at,  150. 

made  bishop,  151. 

death,  152,  153. 

works,  153,  154. 

intolerable  learning,  155. 

style,  155.  158,  159,  160-162. 

poet  preacher,  157. 

theology.  163. 

Tediousness,  an  example  of,  370. 
Tenderness,  instances  of,  2q2-294. 
Tennessee,  old  Jemmy  of  (note),  247- 
249. 


Tesselin,  character  of,  62. 

Text,  a  singular,  267  ;a  nasty,  318  ; 
a  short,  320 ;  an  appropriate, 
322  ;  a  wonderful  (note),  379 

Theatre,  better  than  a,  303. 

Thierry,  St.,  on  Clairvaux,  71,  72. 

Theology,  Jeremy  Taylor's,  163; 
Stralten's,  414. 

Theories,  Tyndall's  strange,  385- 
388. 

Thief,  salvation  of  the,  224. 

Things,  rememberable,  183. 

Thorwaldsen's  Christ,  200-202. 

Thought,  the  Lady  of,  134. 

Thought,  windows  of,  423. 

Titles,  singular,  276. 

Tombstone,  sermon  on  a,  257. 

Tongue  and  pen,  4,  6. 

Toplady  quoted,  276. 

Tradition,  a  Hebrew,  370. 

Trifling,  solemn,  124,  125 ;  inge- 
nious, 319. 

Truths,  neglected,  419. 

Tyndall,  strange   theories   of,    385- 


U 

Umbrella,  religion  an,  268. 
Unction  the  tongue  of  fire,  37,  38. 
Unitarians,  Father  Taylor  and  the, 

298-300. 
Uppingham,  Jeremy  Taylor  at,  139. 
Usefulness,  secret  of,  354,  355. 
Uzziah  died,  the  year,  King,  396. 

V 

Vanity,  all  is,  8,  9-11. 

Vieyra,      Antonio,      54 ;      satirises 

pedantry,  113. 
Voltaire,  calling  to,  301. 

W 

Wales,  Jeremy  Taylor  in,  142. 
Warning,  a  sini'ular,  273. 
Waugh.  Alexander,  336. 
character    and    early    scenes, 

337- 

early  thoroughness,  339. 

as  a  preacher,  340,  341,  343 

344- 


INDEX. 


479 


Waugh,  Alexander,  personal  ap- 
pearance of,  341. 

genuine  Scotchman,  a,  341,342. 

Psalms  of  David,  344. 

-    -    power  in  the  pulpit,  345. 

anecdotes  of,  346,  347. 

illustrations  of,  348. 

tenderness,  349. 

pastoral  cares,  350. 

healthful  example,  351. 

humour,  351. 

secret  of  his  usefulness,  354. 

Weakness,  power  in,  176. 

Webster,  Daniel,  quoted,  49  ;  and 
Father  Taylor,  286. 

Wesley  quoted,  25  ;  advice  to 
preachers,  50. 

Wilberforce,  Samuel,  quoted,  419, 
420. 

Whately,  satire  of,  286, 

Whims,  Dr.  Watts's,  267. 


Whitefield,   preaching  of,    26,   27 ; 

scene  in   his  tabernacle,     29-32  ; 

a  rule  of,  364. 
Wilks,  Matthew,    sermon  by,    183, 

320. 
Withington,  Dr.,  on  Jeremy  Taylor, 

136,  137- 
Wit  in  the  pulpit,  237  ;  humour  and 

drollery,  239. 
Wonders,  four,  14. 
Wood,  the  pulpit  of,  i. 
Word,  power  of  a  Divine,  36. 
Words,  big,  117,  118. 
Wordsworth  quoted,  18. 
Works,  characterof  Jeremy  Taylor  s, 

153.  154- 
Wormwood,  valley  of,  6,  9,  70. 


Zany,  the  clerical,  249,  278. 


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